BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

MABEL  D.  CARRY 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 


BETTY  MOORE'S 
JOURNAL 


MABEL  D.  CARRY 


RAND  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  MEW  YORK  LONDON 

1912 


Copyright,  1912, 
By  RAND  MCNALLY  &  COMPANY 


Third  Edition 


LONDON,  April  2,  1905. 

DORCAS  has  persuaded  me  to  keep 
a  journal.  She  has  tried  all  my 
life  to  induce  me  to  do  so,  and 
now  she  insists.  I  am  rather  glad  she  does, 
for  everything  I  am  doing  is  so  delightful 
I  do  not  want  it  to  fade  into  oblivion. 

Last  evening  we  went  to  see  a  thrilling 
melodrama  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  There 
were  a  villain  and  villainess,  a  hero  and  a 
lovely  maiden,  and  it  all  ended  beautifully. 
On  our  homeward  way,  as  our  cab  threaded 
its  way  through  the  maze  of  vehicles  that 
crowded  the  Strand,  I  squeezed  Dorcas' 
hand  in  mine  and  said:  "Sister  dearest,  I 
feel  as  if  something  were  going  to  happen, 
something  perfectly,  wonderfully  different 
than  ever  happened  before." 

Dorcas  has  always  listened  to  my  fancies, 
ever  since  our  mother  was  taken  from  us 
and  she,  poor  dear,  was  left  with  the  care 
of  troublesome  little  me.  Now  she  smil- 
ingly answered:  "It  is  the  romance  of  the 


2        BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

play  you  have  just  left,  girlie,  filling  your 
mind  with  visions  of  the  conquering  hero 
who  will  some  day  come  and  demand  you 
of  me." 

John  and  Dorcas  have  brought  me  up 
to  London  for  my  first  long  visit  to  this 
great  city,  for  in  the  past,  when  they  have 
come  here,  I  have  been  left  behind  at 
Chislehurst  with  Jack  and  Molly. 

For  two  glorious  weeks  Dorcas  has 
indulged  me  with  a  variety  of  entertain- 
ment, and  I  have  enjoyed  everything 
with  the  ardor  of  one  who  for  the  first 
time  realizes  the  bigness  of  life.  I  sleep — 
to  dream  of  the  wonders  of  the  day  spent 
and  pleasures  passed — and  awake,  my 
nerves  tingling  with  excitement,  to  meet 
the  new  day,  full  of  unlived  experiences. 

I  think  of  the  nineteen  years  of  my  life 
as  a  tale  that  is  told.  My  world  will 
never  be  the  same,  now  that  I  have  seen 
the  working,  playing,  suffering  humanity 
of  London.  I  long  to  become  a  part  of 
its  busy  life — to  work,  to  play,  to  suffer, 
too,  if  need  be.  I  hunger  to  live,  for  it 
•fills  my  soul  with  amazement  to  think 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL        3 

how  ignorant  I  am  of  the  mysteries  of  life. 
In  that  beautiful,  peaceful  dream  of  living, 
in  the  quiet  English  village  where  I  have 
spent  my  life  under  Dorcas'  kind  guid- 
ance, I  realize  now  that  I  have  waited  with 
impatience  to  hear,  see,  and  feel  the  great 
outside  world. 

We  reached  the  Savoy  entrance,  where 
we  are  living  during  our  stay  in  London, 
as  a  number  of  cabs  drove  up  with  pas- 
sengers and  baggage,  evidently,  from  an 
American  liner,  for  we  have  learned  to 
know  the  characteristics  of  the  incoming 
travelers  well  enough  to  guess  their  ports. 
John,  who  had  been  awaiting  our  coming 
in  the  foyer,  was  greeting  with  a  warm 
welcome  a  tall,  dark  American,  and  was 
so  engrossed  with  the  stranger  that  he  did 
not  see  us  enter. 

Dorcas  summoned  a  page  to  tell  John 
of  our  arrival,  and  we  took  the  lift  to  our 
rooms. 

I  moved  as  one  in  a  dream — I  have 
seen  the  Stranger  and  heard  his  voice  for 
about  five  minutes,  yet  I  know  that  my 
hero  has  come  into  my  life;  but  I  do  not 


4         BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

want  to  acknowledge  anything  so  startling 
and  terrifying  to  myself. 

My  heart  beat  wildly,  and  I  wonder 
Dorcas  did  not  notice  my  excitement  as 
we  chatted  in  my  room  of  the  day's  pleas- 
ures. She  attributed  my  emotion  to  the 
play,  and  left  me  with  an  admonition  to 
hurry  to  my  rest. 

Our  rooms  overlook  the  river,  and  not 
being  able  to  sleep  I  curled  up  on  the  win- 
dow seat  to  look  into  the  night.  The 
Thames,  with  its  innumerable  barges,  flowed 
to  the  sea,  and  I,  Betty  Moore,  sat  and 
watched,  feeling  what  a  tiny  little  I,  I  was. 

I  thought  of  the  women  who  had  sailed 
down  the  river  to  the  White  Tower  that 
gleamed  in  the  distance,  many  never  to 
return  to  life  and  love.  They  had  been 
flesh  and  blood  like  me,  and  maybe  had 
sat  as  I,  watching  the  flowing  river,  ques- 
tioning the  future  with  trembling  hearts. 


II 

LONDON,  April  13,  1905. 

THE  Stranger  has  ceased  to  be  the 
Stranger,  for  he  and  John  were  at 
Oxford  together.  He  is  in  London 
on  business.  He  came  very  unexpectedly, 
and  must  return  to  America  in  June. 
Dorcas  says  that  only  the  very  young 
and  the  very  old  live  in  the  present;  that 
it  is  an  indication  of  departing  youth  to 
cease  looking  toward  the  future.  I  must 
have  aged  rapidly  the  past  month,  for  I 
won't  and  can't  think  beyond  June. 

Dorcas  and  I  spend  many  hours  at  the 
galleries  and  museum.  Sometimes  Mr. 
Bennett  accompanies  us  and  sometimes 
John  and  he  are  both  able  to  be  with  us 
the  entire  day.  Billy,  as  John  and  Dorcas 
call  Mr.  Bennett,  enjoys  everything  as 
much  as  I  do. 

Dorcas  sent  us  to  the  Tower  unchaperoned 
to-day,  while  she  rested  in  her  room.  We 
wandered  through  its  galleries  and  finally, 
very  tired,  sat  down  in  the  armor  room. 


6        BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

Mr.  Bennett  was  immensely  interested  in 
the  coats  of  mail  and  cruel  swords,  and 
while  I  rested  he  studied  them  in  detail. 
I  thought  what  a  noble  knight  he  would 
have  made,  so  big  and  lithe;  his  quick 
brain  and  alert  body  would  have  carried 
his  lady's  colors  to  victory.  I  allowed 
myself  for  the  moment  to  imagine  I  was 
the  lady  watching  in  the  stalls,  thrilling 
with  love  and  pride  at  his  salute.  He 
turned  quickly — he  does  everything  quickly 
— and  must  have  seen  something  of  my 
dream  in  my  face.  I  jumped  into  the 
present  with  regret. 

"Come  here,  please,  Betty."  (Dorcas 
told  him  to  use  my  Christian  name,  ex- 
plaining to  him  I  really  am  not  a  woman 
yet.  Dear,  deluded  sister,  she  cannot  see 
I  have  left  childhood  ages  behind  me!) 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "if  you  were  a  knight 
entering  the  lists,  would  you  prefer  this 
breastplate  or  that?"  pointing  to  two 
different  kinds. 

"If  I  were  the  knight's  lady,"  I  replied, 
"  I  should  prefer  he  wore  this  one,"  choosing 
the  one  that  seemed  more  protective. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL        7 

"If  you  were  his  lady,"  he  said,  smiling 
with  amusement  (why,  oh,  why,  will  they 
persist  in  treating  me  as  a  child?),  "you 
might  not  want  him  to  return."  He  con- 
tinued: "He  might  be  a  cruel  knight  who 
shut  you  up  in  his  castle  while  he  amused 
himself  going  to  the  wars." 

"Still,"  I  persisted,  "if  he  were  my 
knight  I  should  want  him  to  return,  just 
the  same." 

"I  believe  you  would,  you  loyal  child," 
he  answered  gravely. 

"Mr.  William  Bennett,"  I  burst  out 
angrily,  "I  must  inform  you  that  you  are 
laboring  under  a  delusion.  I  am  not  a 
child,  but  a  woman.  I  am  nineteen  years 
of  age." 

"Miss  Moore," — he  spoke  seriously — 
"I  apologize.  You  seem  almost  a  little 
girl  to  me,  probably  because  John  has 
always  spoken  of  you  as  'Little  Betty' ;  but 
no  one  knows  as  well  as  one's  self  how  old 
one  is;  and  from  henceforth  I  am  going  to 
consider  you,  as  you  say  you  are,  'a  woman.' 
If  you  will  call  me  Billy  I  shall  know  you 
have  forgiven  me." 


8        BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

I  am  sure  he  doesn't  really  think  me  a 
woman;  but  it  is  a  consolation  to  have 
told  him  my  age,  and  it  is  a  happiness  to  be 
able  to  call  him  "Billy." 

We  went  back  to  the  bench  where  we 
had  been  sitting,  and  soon  a  little  family 
came  and  sat  beside  us.  They  were  simple 
country  folk,  but  they  were  happy  with 
each  other.  The  mother  took  the  baby 
from  her  husband,  and  it  nestled  itself 
into  her  arms  with  a  little  coo  of  content. 
The  boy;  about  five  years  old,  asked  his 
father  all  kinds  of  questions,  and  the 
father  very  patiently  answered  them.  The 
mother's  eyes  were  full  of  proud  happiness 
as  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  She 
glanced  from  time  to  time  toward  the  display 
of  armor,  but  it  was  just  a  fleeting  look  of 
uncomprehending  interest.  She  looked  at 
the  things  they  had  come  to  London  to 
see,  because  they  had  come,  but  they  stirred 
no  romantic  fancies  in  her  breast.  Her 
own  living  present  was  what  mattered  to 
her — the  husband  who  was  taking  a  holi- 
day, the  boy  who  was  like  his  father,  and 
the  cooing  baby  in  her  arms.  She  was  a 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL        9 

slip  of  a  girl  only  a  few  years  older  than  I, 
but  she  had  really  lived.  Her  face  was 
worn,  and  already  there  were  lines  around 
her  eyes  and  mouth.  Her  hair  was  pretty 
and  her  teeth  were  still  good,  but  her  poor 
thin  arms  and  flat  chest  showed  through 
the  cheap  lawn  dress  she  wore. 

I  wonder  why  it  isn't  possible  for  me  to 
do  without  an  expensive  gown  or  two,  to 
give  women  like  her  a  few  more  beefsteaks. 
I  have  talked  with  Dorcas  about  it,  but  it 
seems  as  difficult  to  divide  my  excess  of 
luxury  with  them  as  for  the  biblical  camel 
to  pass  through  the  eye  of  the  needle. 
Dorcas  says,  "It  can't  be  done  that  way." 
There  must  be  some  way  to  do  it. 

Billy — I  am  going  to  write  it  and  say  it, 
and  say  it  to  myself,  until  I  can  call  him 
by  his  name  without  feeling  as  if  I  were 
declaring  my  love  each  time — Billy  said, 
"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Betty,"  as  I 
sat  in  a  brown  study,  watching  the  baby 
look  into  its  mother's  eyes. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  I  said  shortly,  for  my 
uncontrollable  fancy  was  imagining  what 
unspeakable  happiness  to  hold  in  your 


io      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

arms    the   child    of   the  man    you   loved. 

"I  am-  sorry,  for  you  looked  as  if  they 
were  pleasant  thoughts,"  replied  Billy. 

Yes,  they  are  painfully  pleasant  thoughts. 
I  would  gladly  change  places  with  the 
little,  hard-working,  emaciated  mother, 
whose  husband  looked  at  her  with  such 
proud  masculine  ownership.  She  may  be 
a  physical  wreck  from  overwork  and  care, 
while  I  am  still  young  and  have  my  over- 
fullness  of  plenty,  but  I  fear  the  man  I  love 
will  never  think  of  me  as  anything  but  a 
little  girl,  never  need  me,  never  ask  me  to 
be  his  wife. 


Ill 

LONDON,  April  16,  1905. 

WHAT  is  my  fate  to  be?  I  asked 
Dorcas  to-day  if  she  believed  in 
Fate.  I  asked  her  if  she  thought 
my  life  and  hers  are  ordained  to  be  lived 
in  a  prescribed  manner.  Did  she  think 
that  Fate  has  our  beginning,  our  being, 
and  our  end  irrevocably  written  in  her 
books?  That  although  some  of  us  seem 
to  guide  our  destiny,  in  reality  all  of  us 
are  helpless  in  the  hands  of  Fate?  I  am 
going  to  write  down  her  reply  where  I  may 
refer  to  it. 

"My  dear,  you  should  ask  a  theologian 
or  a  philosopher  such  questions,"  she 
said.  "I  can  only  answer  you  personally 
and  vaguely.  I  do  not  think  that  Fate 
has  already  denned  the  future  of  your  life 
and  mine.  I  choose  to  believe  that  our 
future  awaits  fulfillment,  and  may  be 
influenced  for  good  or  evil  by  a  power 
within  ourselves,  given  us  by  the  divine 
Creator  of  all  things.  The  happenings  of 


12      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

life  are  often  beyond  our  control,  and  we 
feel  our  helplessness  to  change  what  seems 
to  be  the  working  out  of  foreordained 
wants,  but  I  believe  we  can  influence  what 
we  call  our  destiny,  that  'we  can  be  what 
we  will.'  " 

Here  I  interrupted  impatiently:  "You 
surely  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  all  I 
have  to  do  to  become  a  great  artist  or 
philosopher,  or  anything  I  choose  to  be, 
is  to  just  will  to  be  it?" 

"No,  Betty,  I  do  not  mean  the  'to  be' 
as  you  express  it;  although  I  think  the 
power  of  which  I  speak  could  effect  more 
than  we  realize  toward  the  accomplishment 
of  such  desires.  I  mean  that  we  .have  the 
power  to  control  the  ego  within  us  and 
force  it  to  do  our  bidding.  We  have  this 
power,  but  often  neglect  to  use  it,  and  the 
ego  soon  becomes  unmanageable.  The 
more  ungovernable  the  ego  and  the  more 
difficult  to  control,  so  much  more  power 
and  courage  do  we  gain,  succeeding,  to 
meet  the  intricacies  and  the  tragedies  of 
hfe  that  are  far  beyond  our  understanding. 

"  I  presume  you  can  recollect  the  day  you 


13 

were  first  conscious  of  your  own  existence. 
I  remember  very  vividly  the  hour  I  saw 
myself  for  the  first  time.  I  must  have  been 
little  more  than  three  years  of  age  at  the 
time.  Through  the  mist  of  years  between 
the  then  and  the  now  I  see  the  incident  as 
occurring  in  the  life  of  some  other  person, 
but  I  know  it  was  I. 

"It  was  a  soft,  sweet  day  in  early  June, 
when  a  wee  maiden  pushing  her  doll  baby 
in  a  tiny  perambulator  wended  her  way 
under  the  blossoming  cherry  trees.  She 
looked  toward  the  window,  where  mother 
sat,  to  wave  a  last  good-by  before  starting 
on  that  long  walk  around  the  yard  with 
dolly.  Which  way  to  go,  by  the  well  or 
to  the  stable  to  look  at  old  Billy?  She 
decided  to  go  to  the  well,  there  to  gaze 
in  awe  into  its  deep,  dark  water.  As  she 
peered  into  its  depths  a  little  voice  within 
her  said:  'Be  careful,  Dorcas.'  Who  was 
Dorcas?  Why,  of  all  beautiful  things, 
it  was  herself,  and  more  beautiful  still, 
she  could  make  Dorcas  look  into  the  well 
as  long  as  she  pleased.  She  could  send 
her  back  to  the  sunshine  and  flowers.  To 


i4      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

exercise  her  newly  found  power  she  told 
Dorcas  to  look  up  at  the  cherry  trees. 
The  little  girl  looked  up  through  the 
fragrant  blossoms.  There  was  a  robin 
examining  the  tree  carefully,  to  see  how 
soon  he  might  enjoy  the  fruit  that  would 
follow  those  beautiful  but  useless  blossoms. 
Dorcas  wondered  if  he  knew  he  was  Robin. 
As  she  gazed  upwards  she  saw  patches  of 
blue  sky  and  floating,  fleecy  clouds.  She 
would  tell  the  Father  in  heaven  how 
thankful  she  was  that  He  had  sent  her 
to  this  beautiful  world. 

"From  the  sitting-room  window  mother 
called.  She  must  go  in  and  leave  this 
lovely  outside  world.  Old  Tom  sat  purring 
in  the  door.  She  must  whisper  to  him 
before  she  went.  He  might  not  know  that 
he  was  Tom.  Tom  seemed  not  to  under- 
stand, and  mother  called  again." 

"Dorcas,"  I  said,  "there  never  was  a 
sister  in  the  world  like  you.  I  don't  remem- 
ber when  I  first  recognized  my  own  trouble- 
some me,  and  as  long  as  I  have  you  to 
control  it,  I  shall  not  bother  about  the 
tiresome  thing.  I  am  relieved  that  you 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      15 

think  Fate  hasn't  settled  the  remainder 
of  my  life  for  me.  It  gives  me  the  shivers 
to  think  that  out  there  in  the  future  there 
might  be  a  lot  of  difficulties,  all  planned, 
waiting  for  me  to  live  them.  It's  much 
pleasanter  to  believe  I  might  by  some 
unexpected  act  of  my  own  surprise  her 
into  changing  her  original  ideas  about  me. " 

May  20,  1905. 

We  drove  through  the  White  Chapel 
district  to-day.  Dorcas  did  not  approve 
of  our  going,  but  I  insisted.  I  wonder 
where  all  the  "thinks"  in  my  head  are 
coming  from  to-night.  As  I  gazed  from 
our  comfortable  electric  brougham  carry- 
ing us  smoothly  through  those  streets  of 
misery  my  face  grew  crimson  with  shame, 
shame  to  think  I  can  be  so  comfortable 
and  happy,  and  all  this  misery  in  the  world. 
I  blushed  for  my  clothes,  for  my  gold  bag 
at  my  wrist,  for  my  clean,  well-fed  body. 
After  we  had  gone  a  short  distance  I  begged 
John  to  return.  I  was  too  ashamed  to 
ride  thus  in  my  luxurious  conveyance  and 
see  toothless,  filthy  old  women  stumbling 


16      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

along  the  streets.  I  can  never  forget — as 
I  go  to  my  clean  bed  and  rise  to  refresh 
myself  with  dainty  food  and  soft  raiment 
I  shall  think — they  are  suffering  in  filth. 
Oh,  the  pity  of  it! 

May  25,  1905. 

To-night  I  sat  by  my  window  and 
watched  the  river.  I  sent  out  a  prayer  of 
apology  to  those  who,  watching  its  waters, 
suffer,  for  I  cannot  now  suffer  with  them. 

Billy  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and 
there  is  no  room  in  my  heart  for  anything 
but  selfish  joy. 

May  27,  1905. 

Dorcas  has  consented,  against  her  desires, 
to  our  marriage  next  month.  Dearest  of 
women!  While  I  cannot  think  yet  of 
what  it  will  be  to  leave  the  dear  ones  here 
in  England,  I  know  it  will  be  easier  than 
to  let  Billy  sail  away  to  that  unknown 
America  and  leave  me  behind.  Billy  must 
go,  so  I  must  go  with  him. 

Dorcas  has  sent  for  Molly  and  Jack, 
and  we  are  all  going  to  live  here  until 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      17 

after  the  wedding.  Dorcas  wants  me  to 
be  married  at  St.  Margaret's,  as  she  was, 
and  I  am  glad  she  does. 

I  am  too  happy  to  write  in  this  journal. 
All  I  have  to  say  is — I  am  going  to  marry 
Billy  and  Billy  is  going  to  marry  me. 

June  15,  1905. 

The  glorious  sun  shone  through  the 
stained-glass  windows  of  St.  Margaret's 
to-day,  on  me,  Betty  Moore,  who  joyfully 
promised  William  to  be  his  wedded  wife — 
"to  have  and  to  hold  from  this  day  for- 
ward, for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for 
poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love 
and  to  cherish,  till  death  us  do  part." 

I  know  no  fear  of  the  future,  for  I  have 
lived  in  the  sunshine  of  perfect  wedded 
love  and  the  glory  of  wifehood,  and  mother- 
hood like  a  vision  beautiful  shines  before  me. 


IV 

NEW  YoRk,  July  5, 

WHAT  is  to  become  of  me  with 
out  Dorcas'  daily  presence?  ! 
imagined  that  when  I  marriec 
and  put  the  ocean  between  Dorcas  anc 
myself  I  would  become  a  self-reliant,  inde 
pendent  woman,  but  I  am  just  the  sam< 
dependent  Betty. 

I  am  a  little  sorry  for  me,  but  I  am  mor< 
sorry  for  her,  because  it  seems  that  whei 
separation  comes  it  is  always  harder  fo: 
the  one  who  gives  all  than  for  the  6n< 
who  takes  all. 

That's  the  queer  thing  about  this  funn} 
old  world.  It  shouldn't  be  so,  but  it  is 
While  I  feel  as  if  myself  and  L  had  beer 
torn  violently  asunder,  I  am  so  bus} 
telling  myself  what  to  do  that  I  can't  tx 
as  lonely  as  she,  who  has  suddenly  lost  th( 
care  of  the  same  troublesome  me. 

The  past  weeks  are  like  a  dream,  a  happ} 
one,  where  things  happened  so  fast  I  haven'1 
had  time  to  think.  I  find  myself  living  ir 

18 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      19 

a  strange  land,  the  wife  of  a  man  I  did  not 
know  a  few  months  ago.  I  prick  myself 
and  say:  "You  are  Mrs.  William  Ben- 
nett," and  it  does  sound  odd. 

If  it  were  not  for  those  watery  miles 
between  Chislehurst  and  New  York  my 
happiness  would  be  perfect.  Now  that 
I  am  separated  from  Dorcas  I  realize  that 
the  voice  of  the  spirit  within,  which  daily 
bids  me  seek  the  truth  and  beauty  of 
life,  is  of  her  creation.  She  would  say 
that  it  is  my  conscience,  given  me  by  the 
divine  Father  of  all.  Perhaps  it  is,  but 
it  was  such  a  tiny  little  voice  that  without 
her  tender  fostering  it  would  long  ago 
have  lost  the  power  of  speech,  and  I  am 
conscious  that  I  shall  need  to  listen  to  its 
directing  in  this  new  world. 


V 

NEW  YORK,  December  17,  1905. 

I  HAVE  not  written  in  my  journal 
because  I  have  been  absorbed  in  liv- 
ing. I  have  tried  two  or  three  times, 
but  my  pen  wouldn't  say  anything. 

This  city  seems  very  wonderful  to  me 
in  its  youth  and  strenuousness.  There  is 
something  in  its  atmosphere  that  gets  into 
my  veins  like  wine,  stimulating  me  to 
restless  energy. 

I  arise  in  the  morning  resolved  to  spend 
a  quiet  day  at  home,  writing  letters  and 
sewing.  I  go  out  to  market,  and  when  the 
fresh  breeze  blows  in  my  face  I  become 
intoxicated  with  a  desire  for  doing. 

On  my  way  to  market  I  pass  several 
tenement  houses.  The  children  of  these 
tenements,  dirty  and  anaemic,  play  un- 
watched  in  the  dangerous  gutter  and  street. 
Near  by  are  lovely  homes  with  yards, 
where  healthy,  well-nourished  children 
frolic  in  safety,  watched  by  careful  attend- 
ants. Why,  oh,  why!  Those  poor  little 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      21 

scraps  of  humanity  in  the  gutter  can't 
help  being  born  there,  and  surely  the 
wholesome,  clean  youngsters  are  where 
they  are  through  no  merit  of  their  own. 
I  suppose  this  problem  is  as  old  as  the  world, 
but  it  is  new  to  me.  There  is  always  some 
ignorant  young  person  coming  along  and 
asking  to  be  told  why  things  are  as  they  are. 
I  don't  know  as  the  why  makes  much 
difference  either — the  important  thing  is 
to  find  out  how  to  help  the  children  in  the 
gutter.  I  want  to  do  something  for  them, 
but  they  are  so  many  and  they  need  so 
much.  I  talked  to  Billy  about  it,  and  he 
said  there  are  all  kinds  of  charitable  societies 
and  settlements  relieving  suffering,  and 
trained  paid  workers  going  into  the  homes 
of  the  poor,  helping  them  in  many  ways. 
It  is  a  relief  to  think  things  are  being  done, 
but  the  multitudes  still  suffer,  while  we  go 
on  living  our  perfectly  comfortable  lives. 

Oh,  dear,  if  Dorcas  were  near,  with  her 
comforting  presence!  My  heart  aches  so 
easily  these  days.  Is  it  because  of  the 
precious  new  life  just  beginning  to  throb 
within  me? 


22      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

I  have  often  wished  I  were  a  man,  because 
men's  lives  are  bigger  and  broader,  but 
now  I  give  thanks  I  am  a  woman.  To 
think  of  missing  the  joy  of  carrying  within 
the  temple  of  our  body  a  child — never  to 
feel  the  blessedness  of  nurturing  with  one's 
own  being  the  little  unborn  babe. 

The  glorious  sunshine  pours  itself  through 
my  window  and  bathes  me  in  its  warmth. 

Life  is  unspeakably  beautiful. 


VI 

NEW  YORK,  January  16,  1906. 

SUCH  a  snowstorm!  I  determined 
to  finish  a  little  gown  to-day,  so  I 
could  have  the  fun  of  sewing  on  the 
darling  rosettes  Billy  brought  me  last  night, 
but  I  have  to  keep  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  beautiful  white  world  without. 

Billy  is  just  beginning  to  realize  the 
wonderful  thing  that  is  happening,  to  us. 
When  I  showed  him  the  first  tiny  garment 
I  had  made  for  the  little  stranger  who  is 
coming  in  May  he  looked  at  it  with  the 
queerest  expression  in  his  eyes,  and  then 
I  knew  it  was  not  real  to  him  the  way  it  is 
to  me.  'Tis  harder  for  the  man  to  grasp 
the  joy  of  it  all;  he  is  glad  I  am  happy, 
but  he  doesn't  understand. 

Oh,  this  lovely,  lovely  world! 

The  pure  white  snowflakes  come  softly 
down.  They  make  me  think  of  the  souls 
of  little  babies. 

I  wonder  what  our  baby  will  be  like. 
Will  he  look  up  into  my  face  with  Billy's 

33 


24      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

eyes?  Oh,  I  hope  so!  I  want  him  to  be  a 
little  Billy. 

Some  days  I  am  terrified  at  the  thought 
of  my  coming  responsibility.  To  have  a 
human  soul  given  into  my  keeping!  But 
I  can't  be  frightened  long  because  I  am  so 
happy. 

I  wonder  how  Dorcas  bore  it  when  she 
was  left  with  helpless,  motherless  me — but 
Dorcas  was  Dorcas,  and  I  know  she  held 
the  tears  back  from  her  dear  eyes  so  the 
baby's  skies  might  be  bright. 

All  the  ugly  housetops  are  hidden  under 
the  soft  covering  of  snow. 

Billy's  Aunt  Sarah  is  visiting  us.  She 
has  been  a  mother  to  Billy.  It's  strange 
to  think  we  neither  one  of  us  have  known 
a  very  own  mother.  Billy  must  have  been 
a  wonderful  child.  Aunt  Sarah  enter- 
tains me  with  recitals  of  his  precociousness. 
She  lives  in  a  tiny  little  town  where  she 
has  spent  her  life.  She  never  married,  but 
used  the  best  years  of  youth  mothering 
three  orphan  children,  Billy  and  his  brother 
and  sister. 

I    can't   understand   how   Billy   can   be 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      25 

impatient  with  her.  Of  course  I  know  she 
tries  him.  She  doesn't  see  things  as  we  do, 
and  insists  on  talking  to  him  when  he 
doesn't  want  to  be  talked  to.  He  says 
he  loves  her  devotedly,  but  best  when  she 
is  in  Ohio.  He  is  very  generous  with  her 
financially,  but  he  wants  her  to  live  where 
she  does;  he  isn't  willing  to  share  his  home 
with  her.  I  feel  it  is  almost -our  duty  to 
ask  her  to  live  with  us.  Indeed,  when  I 
think  of  what  she  has  done  for  Billy  I  feel  an 
ungrateful  wretch  for  letting  her  live  alone, 
but  Billy  says  I  have  more  heart  than 
head;  that  we  would  all  be  miserable. 

From  where  I  sit  I  can  see  Aunt  Sarah. 
She  doesn't  realize  I  can,  and  she  is  look- 
ing out  at  the  snowfall  too.  Her  face  is 
sad,  and  beautiful  in  its  dignity,  as  she 
gazes  into  the  storm.  Poor  dear,  how 
different  her  future  looks  from  mine.  I 
wonder  if  she  is  wishing  she  had  not  left 
youth  behind,  or  if  she  is  thankful  her  real 
work  is  over  and  she  may  spend  her  remain- 
ing years  in  the  peaceful  quiet  of  Canton, 
watching  us  younger  ones  fighting  our 
battles. 


26      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

January  30,  1906. 

The  days  slip  by.  They  are  all  very 
much  alike.  Aunt  Sarah  and  I  shop  a 
little,  walk  a  little,  sew  a  little,  and  talk 
a  great  deal.  I  have  to  ask  her  all  sorts 
of  puzzling  questions.  At  least  they  are 
puzzling  to  me.  Perhaps  I  haven't  lived 
long  enough  to  be  intelligent,  but  the 
world  to-day  seems  to  me  to  be  one  big 
interrogation  point. 


VII 

MEREDITH,  N.  Y.,  June  16,  1906. 

A  YEAR  ago  to-day  I  said  good-by  to 
England  and  Dorcas. 

I  am  sitting  by  the  side  of  the 
wonderful  creature  I  call  "my  son."  His 
little  black  head  (I  am  so  glad  he  isn't  a 
fluffy  blond  like  me)  is  a  tiny  reproduc- 
tion of  Billy's.  As  he  nestles  in  his 
basinette  the  fragrance  of  his  warm,  damp 
little  body  makes  it  almost  impossible  for 
me  to  resist  snatching  him  to  me. 

He  gurgled  in  his  sleep,  and  I  had  to 
kiss  his  krinkled,  velvety  cheek. 

He  has  been  in  the  world  only  six  short 
weeks,  and  I  care  so  much  for  his  precious 
little  being  that  I  ask  myself,  "If  this  care 
increases  at  the  same  rate,  what  propor- 
tions will  it  assume  in  the  years  to  come?" 

Billy  decided  quite  suddenly  to  buy  a 
home  in  the  suburbs,  and  was  fortunate 
in  securing  a  very  charming  house  in  this 
pretty  town,  where  many  of  his  friends  have 
come  to  live. 

27 


28      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

Meredith  is  thirty  miles  from  New  York. 
It  is  a  very  charming  village.  Ravines  like 
little  valleys  cut  up  the  town,  forming 
delightfully  secluded  sites  for  homes.  I 
joy  in  walking  through  its  winding  streets, 
coming  unexpectedly  to  the  entrance  of 
some  lovely  home  hidden  from  the  passer-by 
by  thick  shrubs  and  dense  underbrush. 
For  in  some  places  it  is  so  wild  I  indulge 
my  fancy  by  pretending  I  may  see  a  red 
face  peeping  from  behind  some  old  tree. 
Our  savage  brothers  seem  very  near  when 
we  look  at  the  bent  trees  marking  their 
old  trails.  There  is  one  in  our  yard,  and 
oftentimes  I  sit  by  it  and  think  of  the 
lives  that  have  been  passed  here  before  us. 

My  heart  is  filled  with  pity  for  the  poor 
creatures  who  were  at  war  with  us  and  with 
themselves.  Did  some  timid  Indian  mother 
perhaps  creep  through  these  woods  with 
her  babe  at  her  breast,  fearing  for  its 
precious  little  life?  Men  are  strong  and 
lose  fear,  if  they  know  it,  by  fighting,  but 
we  poor  things  must  wait  and  suffer.  Those 
mothers  must  have  been  of  braver  stuff 
than  I.  I  find  myself  terrified  if  baby's 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      29 

temperature  rises  a  degree.  As  I  con- 
template the  life  of  a  mother  of  red  men 
and  mine,  my  respect  increases  for  her. 
She  was  compelled  to  make  her  home 
in  a  wilderness;  in  contrast  to  her  I  am 
given  a  palace  in  a  garden  of  Eden.  She 
had  to  be  wife,  mother,  and  slave;  while 
I  am  as  an  empress,  compared  to  her 
position  toward  her  world.  Her  and  her 
children's  safety  depended  on  her  skill, 
patience,  and  courage;  while  I,  whether  I 
be  skillful,  patient,  or  brave,  am  protected 
with  scientific  precaution  from  every  physi- 
cal danger.  She  had  for  her  spiritual 
inspiration  belief  in  gods  who  knew  no 
mercy,  while  I  may  pray  to  the  merciful 
Father  in  heaven,  knowing  that  He  in 
His  loving  kindness  will  hear  me. 

I  would  have  made  a  poor  Indian  mother 
indeed,  and  I  am  filled  with  humbleness 
when  I  think  how  easy  is  my  lot  compared 
to  hers. 

I  wonder  if  we  women  are  such  poor  weak 
creatures  as  some  men  in  every  age  have 
deemed  us;  that  "on  account  of  the  weak- 
nesses of  our  sex  and  unsteadiness  of 


30      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

character"  we  should  not  have  things  made 
too  easy  for  us.  Do  we  fulfill  better  our 
womanhood  in  suffering  and  repression 
than  in  comfort  and  liberty?  Does  the 
softness  of  civilization,  our  excess  of  free- 
dom from  effort,  make  us  content  to 
confine  our  efforts  to  the  enjoyments  of 
living?  Is  it  because  our  American  hus- 
bands of  the  twentieth  century  demand 
so  little  from  us  physically,  mentally,  and 
morally,  that  we  are  forgetting  how  to 
fulfill  the  vocation  of  wife  and  mother? 
Will  this  indulgent  husband,  observing 
our  retrogression,  curtail  our  liberties  and 
thrust  us  back  into  subjection?  Are  we 
not  wise  enough  to  appreciate  our  privi- 
leges and  strong  enough  to  fulfill  the 
duties  of  our  sex  in  spite  of  the  distractions 
of  our  lives? 

I  am  counting  the  days  until  the  time 
arrives  for  Dorcas  to  be  with  us.  The 
thought  of  her  coming  is  like  the  anticipa- 
tion of  the  Christmas  Eve  of  childhood.- 

Baby  is  awake. 


VIII 
MEREDITH,  April  16,  1907. 

DORCAS  did  not  come  to  America. 
She  never  saw  my  baby.    A  week 
before  she  was  to  have  sailed  she 
was  stricken  with  a  fatal  illness  and  died 
within  a  few  hours. 

I  wonder  now  how  I  can  write  calmly  of  this 
awful  tragedy  in  my  life.  It  is  impossible 
for  me  to  express  the  anguish  her  going 
from  this  world  caused  me.  For  a  year  I 
have  done  as  others  who  suffer  such  losses. 
I  have  lived  and  moved  in  my  allotted 
space,  putting  each  day  behind  me  as  a 
task  I  must  perform.  I  groped  blindly  in 
the  dark,  praying  for  light,  and  at  last  the 
pain  lessened  and  again  I  can  feel,  as  when 
she  lived,  the  assurance  of  her  love  and 
help  come  to  me  from  out  the  eternal. 
I  cannot  remember  how  I  have  lived  the 
past  year.  I  have  tried  not  to  darken  our 
home  with  the  shadow  of  my  grief.  I  sent 
Billy  among  his  friends  to  seek  amusement. 
Billy's  older  brother,  Fred,  who  has 


32      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

lived  in  New  York  longer  than  Billy  and 
has  many  friends  there,  has  been  thoughtful 
of  us.  He  has  seemed  to  understand 
Billy's  need  of  entertainment  and  my  need 
of  being  alone.  He  has  done  many  things 
to  relieve  the  sad  hours  for  me  and  the 
tiresomely  stupid  ones  for  Billy  by  insist- 
ing on  Billy's  spending  the  evenings  in 
New  York  with  him  and  his  friends.  I 
am  beginning  to  understand  that  Billy's 
nature  craves  the  constant  exhilaration  of 
social  as  well  as  business  activity. 

I  had  expected  suburban  life  in  America 
to  be  like  the  quiet  country  life  we  led 
at  Chislehurst,  but  it  is  vastly  different. 
There  is  such  a  hurrying  all  the  time,  and 
I  try  to  do  enough  to  keep  three  women 
busy.  I  play  golf  three  and  four  times  a 
week,  sometimes  more,  in  my  efforts  to 
acquire  a  good  enough  game  to  play  in  four- 
somes with  Billy;  play  bridge  three  or 
four  afternoons  a  week,  attend  morning 
reading  classes  and  afternoon  teas.  We 
dine  with  friends  or  have  friends  dine 
with  us  nearly  every  night  in  the  week. 
We  go  to  dinner  dances  and  motor,  motor 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      33 

everywhere.  There  seems  to  be  "no  time" 
for  the  women.  The  men  have  their 
business,  and  anything  outside  of  that  is 
recreation;  but  our  recreation  becomes  a 
business,  and  our  real  duties  disagreeable 
somethings  for  which  there  seems  to  be 
no  time  or  inclination  to  discharge. 

Our  social  circle  grows  larger  each  year; 
continually  acquaintances  ripen  into  friend- 
ship. Being  so  much  together,  women 
within  an  incredibly  short  time  become 
most  intimate  friends,  calling  each  other 
and  each  other's  husbands  by  their  Christian 
names,  and  discussing  freely  their  most 
private  affairs.  The  women  are  sweetly 
cordial  to  me,  and  I  appreciate  their  accept- 
ance of  me,  a  stranger,  as  one  of  themselves. 
I  have  grown  up  with  few  but  earnest 
friendships  in  my  life,  and  it  is  difficult 
for  me  to  accept  intimacies  easily. 

Nelle  and  Charles  Patterson  are  our  most 
intimate  friends.  He  is  a  grave,  fine  man  of 
forty,  who  wooed  and  won  Nelle,  a  southern 
belle,  a  few  months  before  our  marriage. 

Our  life  is  a  continual  dissatisfaction  to  me. 
We  are  surely  losing  the  best  in  life,  for  of 


34      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

what  value  is  mere  amusement,  a  continual 
whirl  of  good  times,  if  I  must  give  over  my 
baby  to  the  care  of  a  trained  person  because 
I  have  no  time  to  be  with  him?  Billy  and 
I  have  no  chance  to  be  with  each  other 
or  to  take  part  in  the  more  serious  things 
of  life.  Our  Sundays  are  spent  in  motor- 
ing or  at  the  golf  club,  and  our  summer's 
absence  from  church  service  seems  to  es- 
tablish the  habit  of  staying  away  during 
the  remainder  of  the  year. 

A  majestic  oak  stands  in  the  center  of 
our  lawn  and  many  times  I  look  at  it, 
tall  and  mighty  against  the  sky.  I  have 
a  pagan  reverence  for  its  dignity,  and  I 
cannot  help  contrasting  its  life  with  mine. 
Feeling  the  failure  of  my  frivolous  existence, 
I  look  with  envy  at  the  oak,  fulfilling  its 
destiny  in  calm  upgrowing. 

MEREDITH,  May  6,  1907. 

Yesterday  was  Sonny's  birthday  and 
was  one  of  the  days  that  come  in  life  as 
perfect  as  living  may  be,  the  remembrance 
of  which  I  wish  to  lock  in  my  heart  as  a 
precious  memory. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      35 

The  sun  came  up  as  it  did  a  year  ago, 
when  I  watched  it  rise,  knowing  that  the 
hour  of  my  bodily  anguish  was  upon  me. 
Then,  as  I  stood  by  the  window  watching 
the  passing  of  the  night  and  the  beginning 
of  the  day  that  was  to  be  different  from  all 
other  days  for  me,  the  glory  of  the  flaming 
ball  of  fire  in  the  east  dispelling  the  misty 
clouds  which  floated  between  us  gave 
me  courage  to  meet  the  coming  hours. 
That  sunrise  was  beautifully  full  of  promise 
that  nothing  but  good  could  happen  on 
such  a  day.  Through  the  mist  of  suffering 
I  could  hope  that  when  the  same  sun  sank 
in  the  west  my  child  would  live.  That 
sunrise  has  been  a  part  of  my  consciousness 
ever  since  the  hour  my  baby  breathed. 
With  the  sound  of  his  birth  scream  bringing 
supremest  joy  to  me  in  my  agony  I  could 
feel  through  the  'birth  of  the  day  God's 
promise  of  eternal  light. 

Yesterday  Billy  awoke  to  see  me  sitting 
by  the  window,  and  guessing  my  thanks- 
giving, as  I  watched  the  light  in  the  east, 
he  came  and  knelt  beside  me. 

"Betty,  little  girl,"  he  said,  "just  a  year 


36      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

ago  to-day  our  Sonny's  coming  made  me 
the  proudest  man  in  the  world. " 

"Yes,  dear,"  I  answered. 

He  held  my  hand  and  told  me  how  he 
loved  the  boy,  and  called  me  "sweet  little 
mother."  Oh,  the  preciousness  of  that 
hour!  The  nurse  brought  the  little  fellow, 
warm  and  sweet  from  his  bed,  to  us,  and 
Billy  cuddled  him  in  his  arms  as  if  the 
babe's  exquisite  preciousness  were  beyond 
expression  in  words. 

I  can  always  have  that  sweet  memory 
to  look  back  upon. 

June  17,  IQO'/. 

Sonny  took  his  first  steps  alone  to-day. 
When  he  with  outstretched  arms  came 
with  tottering  steps  toward  me  my  heart 
felt  as  if  it  would  burst  with  pride  and 

joy- 
it  is  one  of  those  days  when  your  being 
sings  a  triumphal  march  of  living.  I  feel 
within  me  the  realness  and  joyousness 
of  immortality.  All  the  petty,  miserable 
things  fade  before  the  sunshine  and  warmth 
of  pulsating,  vigorous  living. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      37 

To-day  I  feel  my  life  means  something — 
I  am  not  born  in  vain.  I  am  wife,  mother, 
friend,  and  the  possibility  of  helping,  of 
lessening  the  world's  pain,  seems  real. 


IX 

MEREDITH,  June  20,  1907. 

NELLE  PATTERSON  and  I  are  much 
together.  She  is  a  charming  girl, 
but  more  of  a  man's  than  a  woman's 
woman.  She  seems  always  to  make  friends 
easily  with  men,  while  women  are  apt  to 
hold  a  little  aloof  from  her.  She  is  apt  to 
be  overbearing  because  since  her  marriage 
she  has  become  imbued  with  her  husband's 
idea  of  herself — that  she  is  without  fault, 
her  judgment  so  perfect  that  her  decision 
should  be  accepted  in  all  things  as  final. 
If  Charles  would  not  surround  her  with 
this  atmosphere  of  false  valuation  she  would 
soon  realize  that  she  is  as  the  rest  of  us. 
She  is  not  of  the  temperament  that  can  rise 
above  such  adulation.  A  woman  with  a 
bigger  heart  and  soul  would  recognize  the 
dangers  of  his  idolatrous  love  and,  striving 
to  reach  his  idealization  of  her,  would 
appreciate  her  own  shortcomings  in  failing. 
Nelle  asked  me  to  dine  with  her  last 
night,  as  Charles  and  Billy  were  golfing  at 
38 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      39 

a  distant  club  and  would  not  reach  home 
until  late.  I  would  have  much  preferred 
a  quiet  hour  straightening  the  confusion 
on  my  desk,  and  I  smiled  as  I  acquiesced 
to  her  demands  over  the  telephone.  I  am 
becoming  so  accustomed  to  the  idea  that 
Nelle's  wishes  should  always  be  considered 
before  others'  that  I  almost  believe  it 
myself. 

After  dinner  we  went  up  to  Nelle's  room 
to  look  at  new  gowns.  I  was  again  im- 
pressed with  its  luxuriousness.  It  might 
be  the  sleeping  chamber  of  a  princess,  so 
costly  is  it  in  all  its  appointments.  The 
entire  home  is  pleasing  in  its  perfectness, 
but  Nelle's  room  more  than  satisfies  the 
desire  for  comfort  and  beauty.  It  almost 
oppresses  one  with  the  sense  of  its  extrav- 
agance in  luxury.  If  it  were  mine  I  should 
continually  be  asking  myself  if  I  were 
worth,  keeping  for  my  own  personal 
enjoyment,  so  great  a  share  of  this  world's 
goods. 

Ever  since  my  two  months'  stay  in 
London,  in  spite  of  my  happiness  at  that 
time,  I  carry  with  me  the  consciousness  of 


40      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

the  others,  those  who  dwell  in  cpntinual 
daily  physical  want.  It  may  be  poor 
reasoning,  a  "woman's  way,"  but  I  am 
happier  to  allow  myself  only  what  seems 
necessary  to  one's  kind.  In  the  great 
problem  of  waste  in  the  universe  I  realize 
my  economy  of  luxury  is  but  the  tiniest 
atom,  but  it  is  necessary  to  my  peace  of 
mind.  The  multitude  of  suffering  human- 
ity may  not  be  helped,  but  a  few  of  the 
vast  throng  may  experience  less  discom- 
fort, and  my  sense  of  proportion  is  not  so 
outraged. 

It  is  poor  consolation  for  me  to  try  to 
delude  myself  with  the  theory  that  is 
offered  by  some  of  my  women  friends, 
namely,  that  in  spending  freely  I  am 
benefiting  mankind.  The  things  for  which 
we  women  pay  extravagant  prices  rarely 
attain  that  end.  The  larger  percentage 
of  our  money  goes  to  increase  the  income 
of  those  who  have, — the  well-fed,  well- 
clothed  merchant,  the  well-to-do  owners 
of  office  buildings,  overpaid  and  incompe- 
tent household  servants.  I  think  it  would 
be  interesting  but  disquieting  to  trace  as 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      41 

far  as  possible  the  history  of  a  month's 
expenditures.  If  we  could  be  sure  that 
the  underfed,  underclothed  seamstress  and 
the  anaemic  clerk  were  receiving  a  fair  pro- 
portion of  our  money  we  could  with  easier 
conscience  enjoy  our  extravagant  gowns  and 
the  personal  luxuries  of  womankind. 

As  I  watched  Nelle  carelessly  throw  the 
lovely  gowns  across  a  chair  I  smiled  to 
think  how  unconscious  she  was  of  any  such 
tiresome  conjectures. 

She  was  alluring  in  the  daintiest  of  dinner 
gowns,  and  the  spacious  room,  its  ivory 
tinted  walls  melting  into  softness  under 
the  glow  of  rose  furnishings,  seemed  but  a 
fit  environment  for  so  charming  a  creature. 
A  lamp  on  the  center  table  shed  its  rosy 
gleam  over  her  snowy  bed,  with  its  exquisite 
hand-embroidered  covers.  Her  filmy  night- 
robe  and  pink  satin  slippers  awaited  the 
wearer,  who  always  disregarded  the  fra- 
gility of  her  clothes  and  would  indifferently 
drop  beautiful  gowns  on  the  floor,  to  be 
cared  for  by  a  maid  who  shared  the  house- 
hold idea  of  its  mistress'  perfection. 

I  noticed  the  open  box  of  cigarettes  on 


42      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

her  bedside  table.  "Nelle,"  I  expostu- 
lated, "I  believe  you  are  smoking  too  much 
these  days." 

"Betty,"  she  replied  petulantly,  "I  sup- 
pose you  would  deny  me  that  harmless 
amusement,  if  you  had  your  way.  I  have 
to  have  them.  Think  of  the  cares  I  have, 
this  great  house  and  all  its  troublesome 
servants,  and  my  nerves  a  wreck.  I 
don't  see  how  you  manage — with  the 
baby,  too.  How  do  you  ever  get  any 
rest?  You  are  beginning  to  show  the  wear 
and  tear.  You  had  better  do  the  way  I 
do,  and  rest  in  the  morning.  One  never 
gets  a  chance  later  in  the  day.  No  one 
is  allowed  to  come  near  my  room  in  the 
morning  until  I  ring  my  bell.  Just  because 
the  men  have  to  get  up  is  no  ( reason  we 
should.  My  nerves  are  too  bad — I  can't 
sleep  until  midnight." 

I  hesitatingly  suggested  that  the  cigar- 
ettes might  have  something  to  do  with  the 
condition  of  her  nerves.  This  angered 
her,  and  she  replied  impatiently:  "Just 
because  you  don't  enjoy  smoking,  you 
have  an  idea  it  injures  those  who  do.  I 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      43 

should  think  you  were  accustomed  enough 
to  seeing  women  smoke  in  England  not 
to  be  forever  scolding  if  we  follow  your 
example." 

I  wonder  why  it  is  that  Americans  adopt 
the  evils  of  the  social  life  of  foreigners  so 
much  more  readily  than  any  commendable 
practice  the  same  foreigners  may  have. 
The  feeling  exists  here  that  it  is  beneath 
the  dignity  of  an  independent  American 
citizen  to  attempt  to  better  his  social  habits 
'by  seeking  the  desirable  in  foreign  customs, 
and  for  some  incomprehensible  reason  the 
American  feels  he  should  be  excused  from 
criticism  for  the  vulgar  and  undesirable 
habits  he  may  acquire  imitating  the  same 
foreigners. 

I  reached  home  before  Billy  and  awaited 
his  coming  on  the  porch. 

How  strange  he  should  forget  my  birth- 
day! Sometimes  the  thought  darkens  my 
happiness  that  Billy  does  not  care  as  I  do. 
Was  I  so  blinded  with  my  love  that  I  never 
questioned  if  it  were  the  same  with  him? 
We  lead  a  feverish,  restless  life.  He  does 
not  seem  to  wish  any  quiet  evenings  at 


44       BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

home.  Going  out,  we  are  always  apart, 
he  with  some  other  man's  wife  and  I  with 
another  woman's  husband. 

He  came  home  in  fine  spirits  and  apolo- 
gized for  neglecting  me  on  my  birthday. 
He  was  tender  and  loving,  and  all  the  little 
black  demons  spread  their  inky  wings  and 
flew  away. 


X 

MEREDITH,  June  26,  1907. 

IT  is  impossible  to  keep  count  of  the 
days — they  are  so  busy.  I  can't  tell 
how  I  have  spent  them.  They  are  a 
jumble  in  my  mind — motoring,  golfing, 
visiting,  telephoning,  with  a  little  home 
management  and  child  superintending 
mixed  in. 

I  am  going  to  try  to  write  in  this  journal 
regularly — there  must  be  a  good  reason 
for  doing  anything  Dorcas  asked  me  to  do. 

Sonny  is  blooming  in  the  pure  air  and 
happy  as  the  day  is  long.  I  don't  spend 
much  time  worrying  about  his  upbringing. 
I  am  too  busy. 

We  mothers  talk  over  our  problems  and 
give  each  other  advice,  but  we  aren't  home 
long  enough  to  apply  it.  I  can't  remember 
the  days'  happenings  well  enough  to 
attempt  going  back  any  farther  than 
yesterday. 

Yesterday  I  played  with  Charles  in  a 
mixed  foursome  against  Billy  and  Nelle. 

45 


46      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

• 
We    always    play    that    way — our    games 

seem  to  balance  better.  I  do  enjoy  golfing, 
but  I  wish  some  time  I  might  play  with 
Billy. 

Married  life  isn't  like  what  I  had  dreamed 
back  there  in  that  quiet  English  village — 
I  should  have  been  a  blacksmith's  wife,  I 
am  so  happy  with  my  own,  and  I  imagine 
if  my  good  man  had  been  wielding  the 
heavy  hammer  the  long  day  through  he 
would  have  been  content  to  sit  by  his 
fireside,  his  sonny  on  his  knee,  smoking 
his  pipe,  while  I  might  sit  opposite  him 
and  listen  to  him  recount  the  village  gossip. 

I  know  I  am  foolish — I  ought  to  enjoy 
doing  as  other  women  of  my  class  do,  and 
I  mean  to  make  myself. 

If  we  followed  our  own  inclinations  we 
would  become  dull  folks  indeed,  I  suppose. 

We  came  in  from  the  links  as  the  great 
red  sun  was  setting,  the  sky  over  our  heads 
aflame  with  its  reflected  light.  I  called 
to  Billy  to  look  at  its  beauty,  but  he  was 
busy  tying  Nelle's  shoe  and  gave  the 
glowing  west  an  unseeing  glance.  I  felt 
cold  and  depressed  as  we  came  up  to  the 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      47 

club,  and  Billy  ordered  a  cocktail  for  me 
commanding  me  to  drink  it. 

I  was  amused,  thinking  how  different  he 
is  from  the  husband  of  ancient  Rome  who 
would  solemnly  kiss  his  wife,  and  if  he 
detected  liquor  on  her  breath  probably 
beat  her.  Yet  we  think  the  standard  of 
woman's  morals  vastly  higher  than  in  those 
early  days.  I  suppose  the  moral  degrada- 
tion of  the  beating  more  than  offsets  the 
harmful  privilege  of  drinking  stimulants. 
I  wonder  if  Billy  really  thought  I  needed 
the  liquor  or  whether  he  felt  embarrassed 
as  a  host  to  let  Nelle  drink  alone. 

I  can't  help  but  wish  Nelle  were  different 
in  some  ways,  or  perhaps  I  might  wish  I 
were  more  like  her,  for  Billy  seems  to 
enjoy  her  ways  more  than  mine.  I  am 
mortified  to  find  that  I  try  to  think  and  see 
things  as  she  does,  in  a  foolish  attempt 
to  please  Billy. 

July  27,  1907. 

Jean  Lamson  gave  a  baby  party  yesterday 

for  little  Georgiana,  who  was  three  years  old. 

Sonny    behaved    like   an   angel.     There 


48      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

were  thirty  little  ones  as  guests  aad  thirty 
proud  mothers  and  nearly  as  many  nurses 
watching  the  tiny  tots.  I  left  Fanny  at 
home  because  she  is  so  fussy  about  William. 
Jean  had  a  professional  entertainer  up  from 
New  York.  We  all  sat  on  the  lawn,  and 
the  ones  who  were  old  enough  watched 
him  entertain  us.  Then  they  played  games, 
and  while  Sonny  chewed  my  watch  chain 
I  enjoyed  watching  the  bobbing  bows  of 
dainty  little  maidens  tripping  over  the 
grass  after  balls  and  flying  things.  Nelle 
came  and  sat  beside  me.  She  looked  bored. 
I  said  I  hoped  some  day  Sonny  would  have 
a  little  sister  like  Georgiana,  something  I 
could  tie  bows  on.  Nelle  looked  at  me 
with  surprised  disgust  and  said: 

"I  don't  understand  your  infatuation  for 
children,  Betty.  They  are  cunning  when 
they  are  dressed  and  at  a  party,  but  they 
are  so  tiresome  in  everyday  life." 

"Nelle,  dear,  your  own  wouldn't  be,"  I 
suggested. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  of  my  own,"  she 
answered  angrily.  "I  hear  enough  from 
Charles  on  that  subject.  I  thought  when 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      49 

I  married  Charles  he  would  be  satisfied  with 
me.  He  wanted  me  badly  enough. " 

Even  as  Nelle  gave  utterance  to  her 
angry  thoughts  she  was  beautiful  to  look 
upon.  I  wonder  how  I  can  love  her  and 
enjoy  her  beauty  as  I  do,  for  her  ideas 
of  life  hurt  me. 

"Nelle,  Nelle,  don't  talk  so,"  I  expos- 
tulated. 

"Why  not,  I  would  like  to  know?"  she 
retorted.  "You  are  too  proper,  Betty. 
I  suppose  I  shock  you  because  I  call  a 
spade  a  spade,  but  you  can  just  listen  to 
me.  You  are  one  of  the  women  a  person 
can  talk  to  and  know  you  will  keep  your 
mouth  shut." 

I  do  wish  Nelle  would  not  express  herself 
like  a  rough  boy. 

"Why  didn't  my  mother  tell  me  what 
would  be  expected  of  me  when  I  married? 
Why  don't  women  rebel?  Answer  me!" 

"Nelle,  I  can't  answer  you,"  I  said  de- 
spairingly. "You  won't  listen  to  my  ideas." 

"Well,  you  can  tell  me  what  they  are. 
I  don't  have  to  adopt  them." 

"No,  there  is  no  likelihood,  Nelle,  that 


50      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

you  will,"  I  said.  "I  believe  that  all  earthly 
achievement,  riches,  or  power  dwindle  into 
nothingness  in  comparison  with  the  privilege 
of  parenthood.  Men  and  women  attempt 
to  convince  themselves  that  it  is  a  common- 
place act  to  create  and  reproduce  them- 
selves, but  the  truth  is  that  it  always  has 
been,  is,  and  always  will  be,  the  most 
wonderful  expression  of  human  life.  Really, 
it  is  a  responsibility  we  should  consider 
very  precious,  the  office  of  wife  with  all  its 
possibilities.  Your  mother  did  not  say 
the  things  you  think  she  should  have  said 
because  she  couldn't.  You  would  not 
have  understood  them,  and  besides,  the 
woman  of  the  past  generation  accepted 
more  readily  the  obligations  of  wifehood 
and  motherhood." 

Baby  William  had  gone  contentedly  to 
sleep,  soothed  by  our  voices,  and  just  then 
Katherine  Price  came  up  and  spoke  to  us. 
She  is  just  eighteen,  and  lovely  in  her 
beautiful  girlhood.  After  kissing  Sonny's 
dimpled  hand,  which  lay  limp  as  he  slept, 
like  a  crumpled  rose  leaf,  Katherine  passed 
on,  to  play  with  the  children. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL     51 

"Now  look  at  her!"  burst  out  Nelle. 
"Young,  and  a  beauty,  with  men  at  her 
feet,  she  might  marry  a  man  like  Howard 
Bancroft.  He  has  the  financial  where- 
withal and  is  the  kind  who  would  give  her 
a  good  time.  Instead,  she  chooses  to  marry 
Jack  Elliott,  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  who 
will  expect  her  to  rear  a  family  and  vege- 
tate." 

"Oh,  Nelle,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  are 
wrong,  wrong;  you  don't  understand." 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  retorted.  "You  are 
one  of  those  weak  women  who  believe  in 
the  old  order  of  things,  that  a  woman 
should  be  subject  to  her  husband  and  be 
fruitful  and  multiply.  Not  for  me!" 

With  that  she  left  me,  and  I  cuddled  my 
precious  boy  in  my  arms,  worshiping  every 
atom  in  his  tender,  helpless  body. 


XI 

August  i, 

BLESSED  is  the  day  that  brings  one  a 
new  ideal,  a  definite  idea  to  make 
a  part  of  one's  consciousness. 

I  met  Elizabeth  Bainbridge  at  a  lecture 
this  afternoon  and  walked  home  with  her. 

We  spoke  of  the  contrasts  of  different 
women's  lives.  It  stands  out  vividly  here 
in  a  village  like  this,  some  of  us  living  in 
the  luxury  of  the  twentieth  century,  well 
to  do,  others  striving  to  hide  their  needs 
from  their  pampered  sisters. 

"Elizabeth,"  I  said,  "can  a  woman 
retain  character  and  keep  her  soul  from 
dwindling  while  living  in  the  ease  and 
luxury  that  many  of  us  do?" 

"My  dear  little  woman,"  she  smiled 
back  at  me,  "what  an  embarrassing  ques- 
tion to  ask  me.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know 
that  I  have  experienced  the  meaning  of 
luxury — I  had  never  known  anything  of 
the  other  side  of  living  until  ten  years  ago. 
I  have  therefore  lived  in  close  contact 

S3 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      53 

with  the  women  who  enjoy  both  and  those 
who  enjoy  neither.  Yes,  my  dear,  I  think 
it  is  possible,  but  not  easy,  for  the  woman 
who  lives  with  every  physical  want  gratified 
hi  this  extravagant  age,  to  keep  her  soul 
healthy." 

"How,  Elizabeth?    How?"  I  begged. 

"It  is  a  problem  each  woman  must 
solve  for  herself,"  she  replied.  "There  are 
few  women,  even  among  a  class  of  over- 
cared-for  and  overindulged,  who  cannot 
find  responsibilities  and  beautiful  possi- 
bilities, in  discharging  which  they  may 
exercise  a  soul  becoming  feeble  for  lack  of 
exercise." 

"That  is  lovely,"  I  laughed.  "Mine 
is  positively  anaemic  at  the  present  time. 
The  body,  like  a  Frankenstein,  towers  over 
it,  and  it,  in  its  puniness,  shrinks  daily." 

"The  woman  who  seeks  to  escape  the 
slavery  of  present-day  civilization,"  she 
continued,  "must  think  back  to  her  girl- 
hood ideals  and  endeavor  to  live  them. 
She  must  give  as  much  time  to  the  spiritual 
and  mental  as  to  the  physical  part  of  life. 
Just  because  she  has  every  means  of 


54      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

physical  enjoyment  at  her  disposal  she 
need  not  spend  all  of  her  time  indulging 
herself.  If  such  a  woman  will  practice 
the  old-fashioned  virtues  of  home  making 
and  child  rearing  she  will  find  therein  an 
escape  from  the  feverish  living  of  the 
American  woman  of  the  present-day  well- 
to-do  class.  I  think,  generalizing,  that  the 
women  of  the  very  wealthy  class  are  better 
home  makers  than  the  women  who  have 
enough  of  this  world's  goods  but  desire 
more.  They  are  the  ones  who  should 
awaken,  to  their  responsibilities  and  hasten 
to  change  their  way  of  living." 

"Yes,  yes;  I  agree  with  you.  I  am  one 
of  them.  Really,  I  don't  know  how.  If 
I  were  my  cook  I  could  concentrate  my 
energies  on  being  a  good  cook;  if  I  were 
my  chauffeur's  wife  I  could  fulfill  my 
destiny  washing,  cooking,  sewing;  but  I 
am  neither.  I  am  the  wife  of  an  American 
gentleman  who  gives  me  the  liberty  of 
making  or  of  unmaking  my  own  life  and 
his." 

"  I  believe, "  she  said  in  a  thoughtful  tone, 
"that  it  is  the  middle  class  in  this  young, 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      55 

vigorous  country  who  will  do  more  toward 
bettering  the  inequality  of  man  than  has 
been  done  before.  Just  think  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  us  mothers!  If  women  would 
only  remember  that  they  are  the  soul  of 
civilization. 

"Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  world 
have  so  many  women  held  so  much  power 
in  their  hands.  No,  I  don't  mean  the  fran- 
chise, although  thus  far  I  can  see  only 
good  results  from  the  privilege;  I  mean 
the  liberty  given  wives  by  the  present- 
day  American  husband.  Sometimes  it  is 
careless  indifference  to  responsibilities  as 
fathers,  but  more  often  it  is  loving  confi- 
dence in  the  judgment  of  the  woman  he 
has  chosen  to  rule  the  home.  If  these 
mothers  would  bear  children  and  rear 
them  with  the  thought  that  it  isn't  what 
they  get  from  the  world  but  what  they  give 
to  it,  the  history  of  the  next  century  of 
the  world's  civilization  would  be  changed. 

"How  little  the  fragrant,  charming 
woman  playing  bridge  and  munching  choc- 
olates, while  her  little  son  or  daughter 
rides  in  a  motor  or  walks  with  its  nurse, 


56      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

how  little  she  thinks  that  her  every  act  is 
reaching  into  the  ages  ahead  of  her,  and 
perhaps  deciding  a  critical,  ethical,  or 
moral  result,  after  she  has  vanished,  leaving 
no  trace  of  having  lived.  The  mothers 
of  the  poor  and  of  the  uneducated  are 
influencing  the  lives  of  millions  of  coming 
citizens;  the  mothers  of  our  class  are 
bearing  few  children  and  neglecting  their 
opportunities  of  rearing  those  few  to  be- 
come world  powers  for  good." 

"Oh,  Elizabeth,  do  you  think  we  neglect 
our  children?  I  imagined  they  were  too 
carefully  protected. " 

"So  they  are,  physically,  my  dear,"  she 
returned.  "They  are  shut  off  from  phys- 
ical experiences  under  the  care  of  maids 
who  dare  not  allow  them  the  risk  of  ful- 
filling their  natural  desires  in  play.  If 
you  have  ever  listened  to  the  conversation 
of  the  average  nursemaid  and  child  as  they 
sit  in  the  yards  or  park,  your  instinct  will 
tell  you  how  dissatisfying  to  the  little  one 
must  be  its  limited  world.  It's  not  the 
nursemaid  who  is  to  blame;  it  is  you 
mothers.  You  can't  expect  her,  with  her 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      57 

limitation,  to  feed  that  young  soul  and 
mind.  If  the  little  one  were  left  to  itself 
it  would  travel  into  the  wonderful  dream- 
land of  childhood,  but  just  as  it  is  about 
to  make  a  beautiful  discovery  well-meaning 
Hannah  steps  in  with:  'Now,  John  dear, 
you  mustn't  do  that — what  would  mother 
say!'  These  first  few  precious  years  you 
mothers  have  your  possibilities  and  you 
are  not  there.  You  must  forgive  me  if  I 
speak  too  earnestly,  but  I  have  lived  longer 
than  you  sweet  young  mothers,  and  I  know 
the  day  will  come  when  you  will  realize 
what  you  have  missed  doing.  Don't  be 
satisfied  with  only  the  material  welfare 
of  your  child;  pour  your  soul  into  him, 
and  that  will  keep  your  own  healthy." 

"What  can  the  women  do  who  haven't 
children?"  I  asked. 

"I  think,"  she  replied,  "the  want  keeps 
them  from  becoming  the  complacent,  self- 
satisfied,  material  women  of  whom  we  are 
speaking.  If  it  doesn't,  and  one  is  a  shallow, 
selfish  woman,  she  becomes  a  soul  developer 
for  a  tired  husband,  and  at  least  serves 
some  purpose  toward  the  good,  while  the 


58      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

women  I  mean  are  nothing.  They  bear 
one  or  two  children  and  are  satisfied  they 
have  done  all  that  is  expected  of  them. 
Their  husbands  should  be  content  with 
the  privilege  of  supporting  them  in  their 
busy  do-nothing  existence." 

"I  see  another  difficulty,"  I  suggested. 
"How  can  such  women  as  you  describe 
be  the  mothers  you  would  have  them?" 

"In  many  ways,"  she  replied.  "If  such 
a  woman  awakes  to  the  fact  she  can  soon 
rouse  her  spirit  to  action.  There  is  her 
church  awaiting  her  interest  and  help; 
there  are  her  civic  responsibilities;  there 
are  the  lives  of  others  less  fortunate  than 
herself  coming  in  contact  with  her  life; 
there  are  always  the  poor.  At  present, 
the  pleasantnesses  of  life  absorb  nine  tenths 
of  her  time,  and  the  earnestnesses  of  living 
must  be  squeezed  into  the  remaining  one 
tenth.  I  need  not  prescribe  the  many 
outlets  for  her  newly  awakened  sense  of 
responsibility.  As  soon  as  this  woman 
wishes  to  do  her  work,  and  turns  deter- 
minedly to  fulfill  her  duty,  she  will  find 
the  'how.'  " 


XII 

September  16,  1907. 

FEELING  depressed  and  discouraged 
this  morning,  I  decided  to  ask 
Elizabeth  to  give  me  an  hour  of 
her  cheering  companionship.  I  asked  her 
by  telephone  what  hour  I  might  come 
to  see  her,  and  her  cheery  voice  came  back : 
"Any  hour,  my  dear,  if  you  don't  mind 
sitting  in  the  kitchen." 

I  found  her  busy  baking  bread  and  cake, 
her  eyes  full  of  sparkling  animation. 
Beside  her  on  the  kitchen  table  was  an  open 
volume  by  John  Stuart  Mill  on  the  sub- 
jection of  women. 

"My  dear  Betty,  what's  wrong  with  the 
world?"  she  questioned,  after  she  had  put 
me  in  a  low  rocker  by  the  south  window, 
where  flowers  bloomed  and  a  canary  sang 
happily. 

"Women,"  I  replied. 

She  laughed  her  sweet,  cheery  laugh  as 
she  poured  her  cake  mixture  into  the  tin. 

"Do  you  think  my  husband  will  tire 


60      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

of  me  as  I  grow  old?  I  hear  all  the  time 
from  other  women  the  necessity  of  keeping 
my  husband  enamored  with  my  physical 
attractions.  Do  you  think  the  sex  element 
is  so  overproportioned  that  it  overbalances 
everything  else  in  the  relation  of  men  and 
women  to  each  other?" 

I  watched  her  face  as  she  put  her  cake 
carefully  in  the  oven.  One  is  always  dis- 
covering new  beauties  in  her  noble  counte- 
nance. You  need  never  fear  to  see  even 
a  fleeting  expression  of  anything  unlovely. 
If  imperfect  thoughts  attempt  to  find  a 
resting  place  within  her  mind  the  fineness 
and  purity  of  her  nature  overcome  their 
harmful  mission  and  they  effect  no  expres- 
sion through  her. 

She  did  not  answer  me  immediately, 
but  continued  her  homely  duties  in  her 
direct,  capable  way,  and  as  I  waited  for 
her  to  speak  the  sunshine,  the  bird's  sweet 
song,  her  confident,  cheerful  self,  created 
an  atmosphere  of  positive  hopefulness. 
As  one  comes  in  chilled  from  the  outer 
world  to  sit  before  the  comforting  heat  and 
brightness  of  an  open  fire,  so  was  I  grateful 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      61 

to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  her  presence. 
I  began  to  feel  the  possibility  of  overcoming 
the  imperfectness  of  my  existence. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "marriages  that 
are  based  on  love  should  be  spiritual.  In 
them  the  element  of  sex  is  necessary,  but 
from  this  element  the  consciousness  of 
sex  may  vanish.  You  are  young  now,  in 
the  fullness  of  life  and  love.  You  are 
living  in  an  age  when  the  materialness  of 
civilization  accentuates  everything  per- 
taining to  the  flesh.  You  have  only  to 
look  at  one  day's  living  to  realize  how 
little  spirituality  there  is  in  our  lives.  The 
hours  are  spent  in  eating,  sleeping,  dressing, 
and  recreation.  The  sex  attraction,  old 
as  the  hills,  thrives  in  the  atmosphere  of 
present-day  civilization.  Man,  who  is  in 
all  ages  a  more  physical  being  than  woman, 
very  naturally  as  the  women  of  his  genera- 
tion become  more  materialistic  forgets  the 
spiritual  part  of  her  being  and  looks  for  a 
corresponding  animalism  in  her. 

"We  glory  in  the  advancement  of  our 
age,  and  yet  I  think  we  women  have 
been  sliding  down  the  scale  the  past  two 


62      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

centuries.  We  need  as  a  sex  to  work  for  the 
restoring  of  old-time  standards.  We  need 
to  wake  to  the  realization  of  the  duty 
of  child  bearing  and  of  simple  living. 
Every  woman,  no  matter  how  limited 
her  sphere,  has  spiritual  possibilities 
toward  the  world.  If  her  lot  is  to  walk 
unknown,  the  look  in  her  eyes,  her  bear- 
ing, her  apparel,  may  be  an  influence  for 
good  or  bad.  As  mothers  of  men  her 
opportunity  is  increased  a  hundredfold. 
Women  as  a  sex  are  not  as  loyal  to  each 
other  as  men.  If  enough  women  cared 
sufficiently  for  the  glory  of  their  sex,  and 
would  make  sacrifices  for  its  uplifting, 
this  world  would  be  a  much  better  world." 

"Elizabeth,"  I  said,  "if  I  try  to  do  the 
things  you  say  women  should  do,  will  my 
husband's  love  continue  for  me  through 
the  years?  May  I  cease  worrying  about 
losing  my  physical  attraction  for  him?" 

"Yes,  my  dear  Betty,  I  think  you  may, " 
she  replied.  "There  are  few  men  with 
cultivated  faculties  who  will  not  love  you 
lastingly  for  beauties  of  character  and  of 
soul.  Create  for  yourself  the  highest  ideal 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      63 

of  womanhood  you  can  imagine,  and  strive 
continually  to  live  that  ideal.  There  must 
be  among  our  fine  American  gentlemen 
many  disappointed  husbands,  men  who 
learned  the  worth  of  womanhood  from  a 
noble  mother  and  who  are  unfortunate 
enough  to  have  for  a  mate  a  helpless, 
selfish  woman.  Such  wives  need  only  try 
to  fulfill  their  husbands'  idealization  of 
them. 

"But,  Elizabeth,"  I  interposed,  "are 
there  not  many  men  who  are  too  ignoble 
to  appreciate  a  wife's  moral  and  spiritual 
strivings  toward  perfection,  who  are  better 
pleased  to  have  her  a  good-looking  animal?" 

"Perhaps,  Betty,"  she  admitted.  "How- 
ever, a  wise  and  good  woman  may 
be  the  means  of  awaking  such  a  man's 
better  self.  I  fear  it  is  an  almost  impos- 
sible task  for  a  woman  to  make  over  a 
man's  soul  after  marriage.  A  wife  with 
a  brutish  husband  is  a  poor  helpless  crea- 
ture, and  if  she  has  strength  to  hold  her 
belief  in  goodness  and  purity,  although  shut 
off  from  the  joy  of  them  in  her  own  life, 
she  is  surely  one  of  God's  elect." 


64      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

I  am  indeed  thankful  for  this  woman's 
friendship. 

September  17,  1907. 

We  dined  with  George  and  Jean  Lamson 
last  night. 

During  dinner  I  asked  Charles  if  he 
thought  we  women  were  too  extravagant. 
Charles,  the  adoring  husband,  never  criti- 
cizes anything  feminine,  but  it  was  the 
beginning  of  a  lively  discussion. 

"Robert  says,"  Helen  Gregory  inter- 
rupted, "that  women  of  our  set  all  spend 
more  than  we  should." 

"He's  right,"  agreed  George  Lamsou. 
"I  am  busted  the  first  of  every  month  when 
Jean's  bills  come  in." 

"I  should  think  you  would  be  ashamed  of 
yourselves,"  Nelle  broke  in  angrily.  "I 
would  like  to  know  what  you  mean  by 
'Jean's  bills ' !  It's  probably  the  butcher, 
the  baker,  and  the  candlestick  maker. 
We  can't  help  it  if  prices  are  higher  than 
a  cat's  back,  can  we?" 

"No,  Nelle,"  Robert  answered,  "but 
you  can  learn  the  value  of  money.  Helen 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      65 

is  trying  to,  but  it  isn't  in  her  line.  She 
is  a  fine  little  spender,  however." 

"Golly, "  said  George,  "you  have  got 
courage  to  talk  up  like  that. " 

"That's  enough  for  you,  George,"  said 
Jean,  with  a  look  that  quieted  any  further 
remark  her  husband  might  have  thought 
of  making. 

"I've  noticed  if  there  is  any  economizing 
to  be  done  it's  the  woman  who  is  expected 
to  do  it.  I  worry  over  my  bills  and  hand 
them  to  George  feeling  like  a  criminal, 
and  then  I  happen  to  see  some  of  his  club 
bills!  The  baby  will  grow,  and  George 
likes  me  to  be  as  well  dressed  as  other 
women.  Isn't  that  so,  George?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so, "  assented  George. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  is  the  matter,  boys." 
We  all  laughed,  for  Fred  Perry  is  a  bachelor. 

"Well,  but  I  am  serious,"  he  persisted. 
"It's  all  wrong  to  make  a  woman  feel 
dependent.  If  I  were  a  woman  I  would 
poison  a  man  who  treated  me  as  something 
to  be  supported.  When  you  marry  a 
girl  you  make  her  your  partner,  and  half 
of  everything  is  hers.  It's  no  favor  for 


66      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

you  to  support  her.  Her  economic  value 
in  the  home  is  worth  half  the  income  you 
may  be  able  to  earn.  When  I  think  of 
my  existence  and  see  the  way  you  fellows 
live  I  am  inclined  to  change  the  statement 
and  say  your  wives  ought  to  have  all  the 
income  and  give  you  an  allowance." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Fred,"  George  blus- 
tered, "we  have  a  hard  enough  time  now 
without  you  giving  these  girls  any  new 
ideas  of  their  importance." 

"You  wait,"  continued  Fred,  "until 
1  show  you  how  to  treat  a  wife.  I  think 
the  women  have  a  darned  hard  time.  If 
I  were  a  woman  I  wouldn't  marry  the  best 
man  on  earth.  The  woman  takes  you  'for 
better  for  worse,'  and  it's  usually  'worse' 
for  her." 

"Think  what  a  husband  for  some 
woman!"  sighed  Jean.  "Fred,  why  in  the 
name  of  goodness  didn't  you  make  yourself 
known  before  we  girls  tied  ourselves  to 
these  unappreciative  men?" 

"I  should  like  to  have  an  opportunity 
to  make  a  statement,"  interrupted  Robert, 
in  his  coldly  pleasant  voice. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      67 

"Go  ahead,  Rob,"  said  George;  "speak 
up  for  us." 

"It  is  this,"  said  Robert.  "Fred  is 
from  twenty-five  to  fifty  years  behind 
schedule  in  his  wife  valuation.  Wives  used 
to  be  worth  in  economic  value  to  the  home 
a  great  deal  more  than  they  are  at  the 
present  day.  What  do  the  women  you 
know  give  to  their  homes  and  their  world 
of  real  value  ?  I  am  not  speaking  of  excep- 
tions or  of  the  very  rich  or  very  poor,  but 
of  the  women  you  know.  Generally  speak- 
ing, the  servants  run  the  house.  If  there 
is  a  child  or  two,  expert  nurses  are  paid 
to  care  for  it  or  them.  The  wife  and 
mother  has  all  she  can  do  to  buy  her 
clothes,  shop,  entertain  and  be  entertained 
with  luncheons  and  teas,  play  golf  and 
bridge,  answer  telephone  calls,  and  ride 
miles  in  expensive  automobiles  on  seem- 
ingly important  errands.  At  the  end  of 
the  day,  instead  of  having  added  to  the 
home  her  share  of  labor,  whether  physical 
or  ornamental,  she  would,  if  she  were  to 
compute  her  hours'  activities  in  dollars 
and  cents,  be  shocked  to  find  herself  an 


68      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

expensive  luxury  to  her  husband.  I  don't 
think  the  woman  is  altogether  to  blame  for 
this  condition.  I  am  not  so  much  criti- 
cizing her  as  making  a  statement  of  fact. 
She  used  to  spend  more  time  in  her  home 
with  her  children  and  less  time  and  money 
upon  herself  than  now." 

"Robert,"  exclaimed  Jean,  "how  can 
you  say  such  outrageous  things?" 

"They  are  not  outrageous,  girls,  they 
are  simply  facts,"  smilingly  replied  Robert, 
for  he  loves  to  provoke  a  discussion,  and 
often  overtalks  himself  with  that  end  in 
view. 

"Jean,"  questioned  Robert,  "did  you 
ever  stop  to  figure  just  how  much  money 
you  carry  around  on  your  person  every 
day?" 

"About  twenty -five  cents,"  laughed 
Jean,  "and  once  in  a  while  a  ten-dollar 
bill." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  Robert  replied  in 
his  superior  way.  "I  mean  when  you  go 
out  arrayed  in  your  usual  attire,  do  you 
ever  think  of  the  total  cost  of  gowns, 
hat,  lingerie,  and  trinkets?  Do  you  ever 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      69 

compute  what  percentage  of  your  husband's 
income  is  required  for  your  personal  needs? " 

"Great  heavens,  no,  Robert!  What  a 
cold-blooded  way  of  putting  it,"  said 
Jean,  with  disgust. 

"That's  it;  if  we  men  try  to  induce  you 
women  to  use  business  methods  in  your 
domestic  affairs  you  call  us  cold-blooded," 
argued  Robert.  "To  speak  frankly,  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  the  American 
business  man  of  to-day  spend  too  much 
money  on  their  persons.  They  are  very 
nice  to  look  at,  but  of  what  economic 
value  are  they  to  their  husbands  and 
fathers?  My  grandmother  and  yours  gave 
something  to  the  world.  You  women 
would  call  them  frumps,  and  say  their 
outlook  was  narrow.  What  will  your 
grandchildren  say  of  you?" 

I  wonder  if  there  is  more  truth  than  we 
are  willing  to  admit  in  Robert's  criticism 
of  our  extravagance? 


XIII 

September  30,  ipo/. 

THERE    was   a  Mothers   Meeting  at 
school  to-day.     There  are  a  number 
of   mothers    who    confer    with    the 
teachers    to    discuss  ways  and    means    of 
helping  the  children. 

The  town  is  divided  by  the  Alder,  a 
tiny  river,  into  what  is  spoken  of  as  the 
East  and  West  Side.  There  is,  however, 
more  than  a  geographical  difference  between 
the  two,  a  difference  more  impossible  to 
bridge  or  tunnel  than  the  most  difficult 
condition  of  nature — the  difference  of  class. 
I  am  just  beginning  to  recognize  what  an 
important  thing  it  is  here  in  America. 
At  home  dividing  lines  are  distinct  and  of 
long  standing.  Here  it  is  different.  There 
little  attempt  is  made  to  bridge  the  differ- 
ence or  break  down  the  ethical  barriers. 
Here  there  is  a  constant  effort  to  ignore 
the  difference  and  destroy  the  obstructing 
something  that  does  exist,  notwithstanding 
our  desire  to  deny  it.  I  love  this  vigorous, 
70 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      71 

warm-hearted  country  and  its  people,  and 
rejoice  that  I  am  one  of  them. 

A  Mrs.  Cartwright  called  me  up  on  the 
telephone  and  asked  me  to  become  a  member 
of  the  Mothers  and  Teachers  Association, 
and  to  attend  the  meeting  with  her  to-day. 
She  is  the  wife  of  the  village  barber.  I 
called  for  her  in  my  automobile  and  she 
seemed  pleased,  but  I  felt  uncomfortable. 
I  tried  to  be  at  my  ease  and  talk  naturally, 
but  didn't  succeed  very  well.  My  constraint 
affected  her,  and  we  were  both  glad  when 
we  reached  the  school. 

There  was  a  good-sized  gathering,  about 
one  hundred  from  the  West  Side  and  ten 
from  the  East.  I  saw  Jean  Lamson, 
perfectly  at  her  ease,  talking  vivaciously 
to  four  West  Siders,  who  were  frankly 
enjoying  her,  her  charm,  her  clothes,  her 
general  something  that  made  the  difference 
between  her  and  them.  If  the  difference 
was  observed  by  Jean  she  gave  no 
evidence  of  it.  She  went  to  the  heart  of 
things.  She  ignored  the  immaterial  ap- 
purtenance. She  might  not  have  to  cook 
her  meals  and  wash  her  children's  clothes. 


.72      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

in  fact,  could  not  do  so  if  she  wished, 
unless  she  displeased  her  husband  and 
failed  in  being  what  he  desired.  She 
might  ride  in  an  expensive  motor  while 
they  walked  on  tired  feet  to  the  meeting, 
but  she  was  able,  in  spite  of  her  handicap, 
the  seemingly  unjust  favoritism  of  Fate,  to 
get  near  them.  She  made  them  feel  that 
she  was  honored  with  their  acquaintance, 
that  they  could  do  more  for  her  than  she 
for  them. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Stock,"  she  was  saying  to 
the  wife  of  the  blacksmith,  "I  have  been 
counting  the  hours  until  this  afternoon,  to 
have  your  advice  about  George,  Jr.  Is  it 
right  for  me  to  allow  him  to  trade  marbles 
with  the  other  boys?  You  know " — she 
explained  to  the  woman  standing  next  to 
her — "it's  such  a  satisfaction  and  privi- 
lege for  a  mother  with  little  tikes  to  have 
the  advice  of  a  woman  who  has  successfully 
raised  four  boys." 

Mrs.  Stock  glowed  with  pride. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Lamson!  My  boys  are  good 
boys,  to  be  sure." 

"Yes,    indeed   they    are,    Mrs.    Stock," 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      73 

continued  Jean  cordially.  "I  would  be 
thankful  to  have  mine  turn  out  as  well." 

The  meeting  was  called  to  order,  and  we 
listened  to  the  teachers  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  several  of  the  mothers  told  experi- 
ences. They  were  nearly  all  West  Side 
mothers.  We  East  Side  mothers  don't 
have  many  experiences  that  are  worth 
telling,  partly  because  we  are  with  our 
children  so  little,  partly  because  our  children 
live  in  an  artificial  world,  while  the  children 
of  the  West  Side  begin  early  to  solve  life's 
problems.  Of  course  I  don't  think  the 
conditions  of  the  West  Siders  are  ideal, 
nor  the  ones  I  would  choose  for  my  children 
had  I  the  choosing,  but  I  believe  they  are 
better  than  the  East.  The  majority  of 
these  children,  compared  with  the  majority 
of  ours,  will  give  more  to  the  world  in 
proportion  to  what  they  received  than  ours. 

I  spoke  to  Jean  of  Mrs.  Bainbridge, 
and  she  said,  "Yes,  I  know;  she  is  an 
exception." 

Why  need  she  be?  She  is  a  normal 
woman,  not  more  intelligent  than  many 
of  us  East  Side  mothers.  Her  children 


74      JBETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

bear  testimony  to  the  close  companionship 
of  an  intelligent  woman.  The  mistake  we 
make,  I  am  sure,  is  that  we  give  our  children 
over  to  the  charge  and  companionship 
of  inferior  intelligence.  We  cannot  afford 
to  employ  a  woman  comparable  to  our- 
selves. We  will  not  assume  the  confining 
position,  so  we  compromise  by  hiring  a 
less  intelligent  person,  promising  ourselves 
that  we  will  supervise  our  child's  daily 
life. 

Alas,  the  temptation  is  too  strong  for 
us  pleasure-loving  mothers  to  fulfill  our 
self-impQsed  conditions.  We  are  detained 
by  a  bridge  game  later  than  we  expected; 
the  maid  spends  the  twilight  hour  of  story- 
telling with  our  children.  We  spend  a 
Sunday  motoring,  and  the  day  is  the  same 
as  any  other  day  for  the  little  ones.  The 
child  grows  older,  and  we  have  become 
accustomed  to  the  idea  of  the  nurse  filling 
the  gaps.  We  forget  that  we  are  relegating 
this  tender  soul  and  the  developing  mind 
to  the  constant  contact  of  an  inferior 
intelligence. 

I  was  foolish  enough  to  give  utterance 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      75 

to  these  sentiments  in  a  reading  class  of 
the  East  Side  mothers. 

Grace  Dewar  flared  out:  "I  think  you 
are  wrong,  Betty;  my  Hannah  is  a  most 
intelligent  girl,  and  I  consider  her  a  fitting 
companion  for  Henry.  She  understands 
his  moods  better  than  I  do." 

It  is  funny  how  personal  women  are. 
I  tried  to  explain  that  I  was  generalizing. 
Probably  Hannah  is  a  superior  person. 

"It  is  strange,"  I  said,  "that  we  women 
are  willing  to  ignore  class  distinction  in 
the  most  important  thing  in  the  world  to 
us.  We  assign  to ,  a  girl,  probably  one 
unfamiliar  with  the  mother's  ideals  of 
life,  the  most  precious  privilege  of  directing 
the  budding  mentality  of  our  children." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  say,  Betty?" 
asked  Grace  sarcastically. 

"I  am  trying  to  say,"  I  replied,  "that 
unless  we  provide  a  person  as  intelligent 
as  ourselves  with  whom  our  children  are 
to  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  early 
years,  we  should  spend  more  time  with  the 
little  ones.  We  should  not  allow  frivolous 
pleasures  to  consume  those  precious  hours." 


76      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Oh,  heavens,  Betty;  it  is  impossible," 
said  Lillian  Faber.  "For  my  part,  I  think 
American  youngsters  have  a  good  time. 
Look  at  the  poor  foreign  children — they 
are  left  entirely  to  governesses  and  nurses, 
and  it's  all  about  the  same  in  the  long 
run,  and  my  children  have  their  entire 
freedom.  The  older  ones  look  after  them- 
selves." 

"Girls,"  I  said  desperately,  "please 
don't  think  I  am  criticizing  you,  but  I 
must  say  something  that's  in  my  mind  and 
heart.  I  think  it  is  also  a  mistake  for 
children  to  be  left  entirely  to  themselves. 
Freedom  is  a  wonderfully  beautiful  and 
dangerous  thing,  and  the  mistake  the 
American  mothers  make  when  they  do 
not  retain  a  person  to  be  with  the  older 
children  is  this:  Usually  their  children 
have  been  left  entirely  in  the  care  of  a 
nursemaid.  The  nursemaid  has  done  the 
best  she  could,  if  she  happened  to  have 
been  reared  wisely  herself;  otherwise  she 
has  made  manifold  mistakes.  She  prob- 
ably has  taken  good  physical  care  of  the 
child.  The  mental  and  moral  has  been 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      77 

left  for  the  mother,  and  she  has  had  'no 
time.' 

"At  an  early  age  the  children  are  given 
their  freedom,  without  the  foundation  of 
character  that  should  have  begun  in  the 
irursery.  The  mother  has  not  had  time,  the 
nursemaid  has  not  had  the  knowledge,  to 
create  for  the  childish  mind  the  ideals  that 
should  exist  before  the  little  adventurers 
are  given  the  freedom  of  their  lives. 

"Now  the  foreign  mother,  in  correspond- 
ing circumstances  to  ours,  either  gives  more 
of  herself  to  her  children  or  provides  per- 
sons of  higher  intelligence  than  we  do  to  be 
with  them  in  her  place.  There  is  also  an 
important  difference  to  be  considered  in 
regard  to  the  nursemaids.  In  the  old 
world  there  is  an  established  order  of 
things  domestic.  Here  there  exists  a  chaotic 
condition.  There  the  maid,  although  pos- 
sibly more  ignorant  than  the  nursemaid  we 
might  employ,  is  familiar  with  the  mother's 
ideas  and  ideals;  her  mother  probably 
cared  for  her  mistress  or  her  master  in  her 
or  his  childhood;  she  has  been  equipped, 
in  a  way,  for  her  position;  she  does  not 


78      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

aspire  to  be  a  'lady,'  but  is  content  to 
confine  her  ambitions  to  being  a  good 
nursemaid.  Here  the  position  is  filled  by 
a  maid  who  has  come  to  this  country  with 
the  idea  of  'bettering'  herself.  Very  often 
she  is  affected  by  the  restless  atmosphere 
of  the  household.  She  is  easily  dissatisfied, 
and  takes  on  'nerves'  like  her  mistress." 

"Betty,  you  talk  as  if  we  were  to  blame 
for  everything,"  complained  Grace. 

"No,  no,  Grace,"  I  expostulated;  "I 
am  only  stating  things  as  they  look  to 
me.  We  are  not  to  blame  for  'everything.' 
We  can't  help  the  existing  order  of  things 
as  we  find  them,  but  when  we  recognize 
conditions  in  our  sphere  of  mistress  and 
mother  that  need  bettering,  we  are  to 
blame  if  we  do  not  take  time  attempting 
to  improve  them." 


XIV 

October  14,  1907. 

SUCH  a  day!  Its  warmth  is  like  the 
return  of  spring,  a  spring  whose 
radiant  youth  has  grown  beautifully 
wise  with  the  passing  summer,  giving 
us  more  confidence  in  her  promises.  She 
returns  for  a  brief  instant  to  remind  us  of 
the  coming  of  another  spring  and  the 
happiness  of  future  perfectness. 

The  beautiful  sunshine  of  nature  fails 
to  light  the  gloom  of  my  soul. 

I  long  for  the  cold  bleakness  of  November, 
for  I  must  acknowledge  the  fact  of  Billy's 
increasing  infatuation  for  another  woman. 

I  have  ceased  to  ask  why  he  cares  for 
her,  why  I  have  failed  to  keep  for  myself 
the  most  precious  thing  in  life  to  me,  why 
Charles  does  not  see  our  danger  and  come 
to  the  rescue. 

Last  night  Nelle,  Charles,  and  the  Ram- 
seys  dined  with  us.  During  the  evening 
Nelle  proposed  a  run  to  Eagle's  Rest. 
Charles  stepped  into  the  den  back  of  the 


8o      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

living  room  to  order  his  car.  I  excused 
myself  at  the  same  time,  going  to  the  but- 
ler's pantry  to  give  an  order  to  the  maids. 
From  there  I  ran  hurriedly  up  the  back  stairs 
to  peep  at  Sonny  and  find  a  warm  wrap. 

Five  minutes  later  I  started  down  the 
front  stairway,  taking  each  step  carefully 
in  the  dark,  as  the  light  had  not  been 
turned  on  in  the  lower  hall.  Some  one 
had  started  the  victrola,  and  it  was  pouring 
out  a  chorus  of  light  opera.  Nelle  hurried 
out  from  the  living  room  and  began  pulling 
apart  the  wraps  that  had  been  thrown  on 
the  hall  seat.  Billy  followed  to  help  her 
and  to  turn  on  the  light.  The  electric-light 
bulb  had  burned  out  the  night  before,  and 
the  maid  had  forgotten  to  renew  it.  When 
Billy  pushed  the  button  the  bulb  refused 
to  give  light. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Nelle,  "I  can  see 
well  enough;  don't  bother." 

The  moon's  rays  lighted  the  hall  suf- 
ficiently to  make  everything  distinctly 
visible.  Billy  found  Nelle's  wrap  and 
helped  her  slip  it  on.  The  fastening  of 
Nelle's  coat  caught  in  her  hair.  It  is  the 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      81 

kind  of  hair  that  tempts  one  to  smooth 
its  gleaming  waywardness.  It  all  happened 
in  a  minute.  As  Billy's  fingers  fumbled 
with  the  refractory  button  entangled  in 
Nelle's  tresses,  her  nearness  must  have 
tempted  him  beyond  his  control.  The 
released  wrap  slipped  to  the  floor  and  he 
held  her  to  him  with  defiant,  almost  angry 
vehemence. 

I  turned  back  and  hurried  up  the  stair- 
case, praying  the  Chocolate  Soldier  in 
the  victrola  to  persist  in  telling  his  lady 
his  love  until  I  could  make  my  escape 
and  the  two  below  cover  their  confusion. 

The  ride  through  the  calm,  white  night 
helped  to  quiet  my  quivering  soul. 

When  Billy  and  I  closed  the  door  of 
our  home  upon  the  others  I  could  hide  my 
misery  from  his  eyes.  At  the  top  of  the 
staircase  I  turned  to  go  down  the  hall  to 
Sonny's  room,  to  look  a  last  good  night  at 
the  darling  in  his  crib.  As  I  turned,  Billy 
whispered  in  that  hoarse  stage  whisper  we 
always  use  when  Sonny  is  asleep:  "Betty, 
give  the  kiddie  a  kiss  for  me." 

If  it  had  not  been  for  that  whispered 


82      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

message  with  its  tender  intimacy  I  might 
have  had  the  courage  to  demand  an  apology 
from  Billy  and  refuse  to  have  my  wifehood 
held  so  cheaply. 

I  came  back  to  our  room,  to  find  Billy 
waiting  to  unfasten  my  gown  and  to  hear 
how  the  boy  slept. 

"Was  he  lying  on  his  tummy?  Was  he 
sucking  his  thumb?" 

Yes,  I  am  a  weak  woman,  clinging  to 
the  preciousness  of  my  wedded  love,  trying 
to  hold  that  which  is  slipping  from  me. 
I  put  from  me  as  if  it  had  not  been  the 
remembrance  of  the  embrace  of  the  other. 
My  husband  is  mine,  and  I  will  fight  for 
him  and  for  myself  until  the  strength  of  my 
love  shall  win  against  that  which  is  not  love. 

December  19,  1907. 

Billy  telephoned  me  last  night  at  five- 
thirty  that  he  could  not  get  home  until 
late,  and  that  Fred  was  on  the  five-thirty 
train  coming  out. 

I  thought  Fred  showed  a  momentary 
anxiety  when  I  told  him  of  Billy's  being 
obliged  to  stay  in  New  York. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      83 

"How  is  Billy  doing  these  days?"  I 
asked. 

"There  is  no  use  in  deceiving  you," 
Fred  replied;  "he  is  the  same  Billy  he  has 
always  been;  keen  for  a  good  time  and 
always  a  'good  fellow.'  His  position  as 
manager  of  the  Gross  Company  needs  his 
undivided  attention,  but  his  nature  is 
such  he  must  needs  attempt  more  than  he 
can  perform — he  is  constantly  going  into 
some  new  business,  some  side  issue,  which 
distracts  him  for  a  short  time,  until  some 
one  interests  him  in  something  else." 

"I  think  I  understand,  Fred,"  I  replied. 
"But  please  tell  me  if  you  know  whether 
or  not  he  is  in  financial  difficulties." 

"I  do  not  know,  Betty,"  he  replied. 
"May  I  ask  you  why  you  suspect  that  he 
is?" 

"Because,"  I  answered,  "he  has  borrowed 
money  from  me  twice  during  the  last 
year." 

"Betty,  Betty,  you  must  not  lend  him 
money,"  he  admonished  me. 

I  smiled.  How  easy  it  is  for  men  to 
give  advice  to  women.  I  thought  of  the 


84      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

times  when  Billy  came  to  me  in  trouble, 
knowing  I  would  help  him.  It  was  too 
sweet  a  privilege  to  deny  myself. 

"Fred,  I  want  you  to  talk  to  me,"  I 
demanded,  "of  the  work  you  are  doing  with 
your  newsboys'  club." 

"First,"  he  replied,  "you  must  promise 
me  not  to  keep  on  lending  money  to  my 
brother." 

"You  forget,"  I  answered,  "he  is  my 
husband." 

"I  beg  your  pardon — I  have  no  right  to 
interfere — I  'do  not  know  anything  of  your 
personal  affairs,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling 
responsible  for  Billy's  actions.  You  know 
you  are  alone,  among  strangers.  You 
have  no  one  to  advise  you — a  generous  and 
loving  wife,  you  forget  financial  facts  when 
opposed  to  Billy's  apparent  needs." 

"You  are  perfectly  right,  Fred,"  I  replied. 

As  I  listened  to  Fred  I  fought  the  little 
demon  within  that  dares  to  whisper  sug- 
gestions of  Billy's  unfaithfulness  to  me. 

I  prayed  not  to  think  unloyal  thoughts  of 
my  husband. 


XV 

January  j,  1908. 

IT  is  months  since  I  have  allowed  myself 
to  converse  with  the  being  that  is  I. 
I  am  as  a  soldier  withdrawn  from 
battle  for  a  brief  interval  to  examine  my 
wounds  and  determine  if  I  have  the 
strength  to  return  to  the  fray. 

I  have  lived  from  day  to  day  with  the 
fear  of  defeat  hanging  over  me  like  an  inky 
cloud,  and  as  I  allow  myself  to  question 
the  future  I  feel  the  chill  of  despair  numbing 
my  being. 

If  it  were  not  for  my  faith  in  the  might 
of  right  taught  me  by  Dorcas  I  would 
acquiesce  to  what  seems  my  misfortune. 
I  would  acknowledge  myself  unable  to 
bring  back  my  husband  to  his  plighted 
troth.  Strange  are  the  ways  of  man — 
Charles  Patterson  has  "eyes  that  see  not 
and  ears  that  hear  not"  his  wife's  unfaith- 
fulness. 

For  months  we  four  souls  have  walked 
on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  I  am  on  the 
85 


86      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

outside,  the  only  one  who  realizes  the 
awful  depths  below.  I  tread  with  careful 
step,  and  hope  by  ignoring  our  danger  I 
may  save  us  all.  Billy  walks  beside  me 
with  nervous,  hasty  steps  that  loosen  the 
precarious  footing.  He  is  so  intently  watch- 
ing the  Other  One  that  he  does  not  realize 
my  efforts  to  push  him  from  the  dangerous 
edge.  Charles  is  between  the  two  foolish 
ones,  with  eyes  in  the  clouds,  unaware  of 
the  gaping  chasm  at  his  feet.  Nelle  trips 
thoughtlessly  along,  her  careless  step  send- 
ing obstacles  across  our  path  that  threaten 
to  trip  us  as  we  go — the  one  who  may 
cause  the  fall  of  us  all,  but  would  probably 
save  herself  and  remain  unhurt  to  pity 
our  fate. 


XVI 

February  16,  1908. 

FRED  has  been  staying  with  us  for 
a  few  days.  Billy  said  that  Fred 
looked  as  if  he  needed  a  few  days' 
home  cooking,  and  invited  him  out  to 
spend  a  week. 

Last  evening  I  received  word  from  Billy 
that  he  would  be  out  on  the  eight-thirty, 
but  at  ten-thirty  he  had  not  come.  Fred 
and  I  sat  waiting  for  him  as  the  hours  went 
by.  It  was  a  bitterly  cold  night.  The 
wind  whistled  around  the  bay  window 
and  the  snow  sifted  under  the  window 
sill;  every  few  minutes  the  gale  would 
beat  with  fury  against  the  windows.  The 
storm  seemed  determined  to  burst  into  our 
cheery  living  room. 

I  sat  by  the  lamp  with  my  sewing. 
Fred  was  almost  back  of  me,  by  the  open 
fire.  I  raised  my  head  as  I  listened  for 
Billy,  and  was  amazed  to  see  in  a  tiny 
mirror  opposite  me  that  Fred  was  watch- 
ing me  intently  as  he  smoked.  I  was 
8? 


88      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

startled;  then  realized  that  he  was  uncon- 
scious of  his  reflection  in  the  mirror.  After 
a  silent  half  hour  he  said : 

"Betty,  why  don't  you  go  to  bed?  I 
will  sit  up  until  Billy  comes." 

"I  would  rather  not,  Fred,"  I  said. 
"Where  do  you  suppose  Billy  is?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  replied,  "but  I 
know  he  will  come  home  sooner  or  later. 
You  mustn't  agonize  over  his  misdemeanors. 
It's  mighty  hard  for  you,  but  try  and  not 
suffer  so.  Why,  you  have  grown  thin  as 
a  rail  bird  this  last  year,  worrying  over  that 
brother  of  mine." 

"Fred,"  I  said,  "you  can't  understand." 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  "that  you  must 
be  mighty  unhappy.  When  I  think  of 
what  he  is  doing  to  you  and  himself  and 
all  of  us  I  get  so  mad  I  see  red ! " 

"Fred,"  I  interrupted,  "you  mustn't!" 

I  had  unconsciously  raised  my  eyes  and 
saw  in  that  little  gold-framed  mirror  an 
undreamt-of  thing.  I  know  now  that  as 
the  clock  in  the  hall  chimed  twelve,  I 
prayed  God  not  to  have  it  so.  I  prayed 
for  strength  to  hide  from  myself  the  thing 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      89 

that  Fred's  eyes,  in  his  anger,  unconscious 
of  my  seeing,  had  revealed. 

He  jumped  from  his  chair  and  began 
pacing  the  floor,  his  hands  thrust  deep  in 
his  pockets. 

"Damn  him,"  Fred  cursed,  "why  can't 
he  behave  himself?" 

I  left  my  work  and  stood  close  to  the  fire, 
for  I  shook  in  a  nervous  chill,  and  my 
heart  throbbed  suffocatingly  in  my  throat. 
A  thousand  thoughts  swept  through  my 
brain  and  left  my  body  cold  and  weak. 
I  said  to  myself:  "  He  must  not  love  me; 
I  must  not  accept  the  knowledge."  In 
the  midnight  solitude  of  the  house,  made 
more  intense  by  the  roaring  of  the  elements 
outside,  I  felt  his  nearness.  I  realized 
against  my  will  that  this  love,  whose  exist- 
ence I  ought  not  to  admit  to  myself,  was 
astoundingly,  marvelously  beautiful  to  me. 
I  had  never  guessed  it.  The  knowledge 
came  to  me,  and  he  must  never  know  that 
I  know.  I  know  that  no  power  on  earth 
would  cause  Fred  to  willingly  allow  my 
knowing.  In  an  unguarded  moment  I 
discovered  his  secret.  As  I  leaned  over 


9o      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL' 

the  fire  I  experienced  a  throb  of  joy  in 
thinking,  "I  can  absolutely  trust  him; 
no  matter  what  happens,  I  can  absolutely 
trust  him.  I  have  nothing  to  worry  about 
but  myself." 

Fred  stopped  his  pacing  of  the  floor  and 
came  and  stood  a  few  feet  from  me,  at 
the  other  side  of  the  fireplace.  I  did  not 
allow  myself  to  look  toward  him. 

I  was  aware  then  for  the  first  time  how 
well  I  knew  every  expression  of  his  fine 
countenance  and  every  line  of  his  powerful 
figure.  I  pictured  him  standing,  gazing 
into  the  fire,  his  broad  shoulders  ready  to 
accept  the  burdens  of  others,  his  keen  eyes 
always  seeing  the  solutions  of  problems, 
whether  a  business  tangle  or  the  shipwreck 
of  some  floundering  human  soul,  his  firm 
lips  so  just  in  their  judgments,  so  kindly 
in  their  utterances.  I  could  see  his  phys- 
ical being,  even  the  way  his  straight, 
thick,  brown  hair  grew,  although  I  did  not 
permit  my  eyes  to  gaze  at  him.  But  I 
forgot  immediately  his  physical  outline 
in  thinking  of  his  fineness.  I  had  for- 
gotten why  we  stood  waiting  together — 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      91 

I  was  almost  happy  in  the  sense  of  his 
fineness  and  strength: 

"Betty,"  Fred  spoke.  "I  think  Billy 
is  coming.  Shall  I  let  him  in?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  "please— I  will  do  it, 
and  I  wish  you  would  slip  up  to  the  guest 
room.  I  can  manage  him  better  alone. 
If  I  should  need  you,  I  will  call." 

As  I  opened  the  door  I  thought:  "This 
is  the  real — the  other  is  a  dream." 

I  stood  behind  the  open  door,  waiting 
for  Billy  to  steady  himself,  as  the  cabman 
loosened  his  hold.  I  have  been  through 
it  all  so  many  times!  I  heard  Billy  saying 
good  night  with  bravado  and  bluster  to 
Jim  from  Brown's  livery,  and  I  blushed 
for  poor  Billy  as  I  waited  behind  the  door. 
I  turned  on  the  extra  porch  light  so  Jim 
could  see  his  way  back  to  his  waiting  horse 
and  snow-covered  rig. 

"Well,  Billy,"  I  said,  "your  meeting 
kept  you  late.  Come  in,  and  let  me  brush 
you  off." 

All  the  time  I  rebelled  inwardly  against 
playing  the  farce,  but  my  reason  told  me 
it  was  the  easiest  way. 


92      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Why  didn't  you  get  to  bed,  Bet?" 
Billy  asked  me.  "As  long  as  you're  up, 
let's  sit  by  the  fire  and  talk.  I've  had  a 
great  day,  Bet — that  Berkshire  sale  is 
going  through.  Gus  Peckam  kept  me 
downtown  with  him  to  talk  over  prospec- 
tive business  in  Vincennes.  If  I  just  had  a 
couple  of  thousand  cash  I  could  make 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  in  no  time. 
There's  a  great  opportunity  in  that  old 
town  just  now.  Say — Bet — don't  you  think 
you  would  like  to  sell  that  street-car  bond 
on  the  C.  &  W.  and  let  me  invest  it  where 
it  will  more  than  double?" 

"Perhaps,  Billy,"  I  replied.  "Tell  me 
about  it." 

I  thought:  "How  can  I  bear  this? 
I  am  losing  every  bit  of  respect  for  him. 
I  know  very  well  what  would  become  of 
my  money,  if  he  gets  hold  of  it — go  where 
the  rest  has  gone,  in  wildcat  speculations. 
But  I  must  humor  him  now  and  outwit 
him  when  he  is  sober.  I  can't  bear  to  look 
at  him — I  am  so  sick  of  his  folly" — 

"Billy" — I  jumped  up — "please  change 
seats  with  me!" 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      93 

' '  Cer-tain-ly .    Why  ? ' '  Billy  asked. 

"Because  I  want  to  see  to  sew, "  I  replied. 
I  thought:  " Dear  me,  I  mustn't  lie  to  him 
— but  I  can't  bear  to  have  him  sit  there, 
full  of  alcoholic  dreams,  talking  crazy 
nonsense,  when  an  hour  ago  a  man  of 
noble  purpose  and  unselfish  devotion  was 
there  in  his  place." 

A  few  hours  ago  I  did  not  know  of  this 
beautiful,  tempting  love — from  now  on  it 
will  be  with  me  always,  until  I  die.  Do 
I  wish  I  did  not  know?  No,  no !  I  should, 
but  I  cannot. 

March  18,  1908. 

Fred  has  been  away  for  a  month  and  I 
have  missed  him  more  than  I  have  allowed 
myself  to  acknowledge.  I  must  be  very 
honest  with  myself.  I  have  found  my 
anxieties  without  the  support  of  his  un- 
spoken sympathy  inexpressibly  harder  to 
bear.  I  have  grown  accustomed  to  the 
comforting  sense  of  his  nearness.  I  have 
learned  to  comprehend  his  generous  thought 
of  others  and  tender  solicitude  lor  me.  I 


94      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

tell  myself  I  must  deny  myself  the  privi- 
lege of  thinking  of  the  existence  of  his  love. 
Temptation  whispers,  "What  harm  is 
there  in  permitting  my  thought  to  dwell  on 
the  sweetness  of  the  knowledge  that  is 
mine?"  My  reason  fails  to  respond;  the 
instinct  of  holiness,  tenderly  nurtured  by 
Dorcas,  burns  my  soul  with  its  flame  of 
protest. 

April  12,  1908. 

At  four  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon  Billy 
talked  to  me  on  the'phone  and  asked  me 
to  come  in  on  the  five-thirty,  saying  we 
would  go  to  the  theater.  I  was  much  sur- 
prised on  getting  off  at  the  Grand  Central 
Station  to  have  Fred  meet  me.  He  saw 
my  look  of. dismay,  for  my  first  thought 
was  that  something  was  wrong  with  Billy, 
and  he  hastened  to  assure  me  that  every- 
thing was  all  right,  but  that  Billy  had 
received  word  just  a  few  minutes  after 
I  had  left  on  the  five-thirty  of  the  arrival 
of  some  men  from  the  West,  whom  he  must 
see  immediately,  and  Fred  had  proposed 
looking  after  me. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      95 

He  had  come  up  to  me  suddenly,  in  the 
throng  of  alighting  passengers,  with,  "Well, 
here  you  are,  Betty."  As  he  walked 
beside  me,  shielding  me  with  his  strong 
body  from  the  jostling  of  the  rushing  crowd, 
each  eager  to  get  ahead  of  the  other,  a 
feeling  of  relief  and  security  stole  over  me. 

"Fred,  I  must  go  back  home,"  I  pro- 
tested, "if  Billy  isn't  going  to  meet  me." 

"No,"  he  insisted,  "we  are  to  go  to  din- 
ner and  the  theater,  and  Billy  is  to  follow 
us  there  as  early  as  he  can." 

I  ceased  protesting.  What  can  I  do  if 
Billy  thoughtlessly  persists  in  planning 
for  us  to  be  so  much  together? 

We  sat  opposite  each  other  at  a  tiny 
table  in  a  quiet  and  remote  corner  of  the 
Waldorf  dining  room.  Intermittent  waves 
of  melody  from  the  orchestra  reached  our 
ears.  The  hum  of  human  voices  kept  up 
its  never  ceasing  flow  around  us.  The 
lovely  raiment  of  the  women  shimmered 
and  their  jewels  flashed.  Their  attending 
masculine  companions  emphasized  their 
loveliness  by  the  contrast  of  their  own 
somber  black  and  white  attire.  The  waiters 


96      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

passed  incessantly  to  and  fro,  serving 
us  seemingly  superior  order  of  beings. 
Through  our  dinner  I  persisted  in  being 
silent,  for  the  purpose  of  listening  to  Fred. 

He  told  me  of  the  plans  he  had  for 
improving  conditions  for  the  men  in  the 
factory,  of  the  experiment  he  had  made  of 
a  paid  visitor  to  help  the  mothers  with  the 
children  in  sickness  and  other  trouble,  of 
a  clubroom  for  the  boys,  a  place  for  them 
to  spend  their  evenings. 

The  materialness  of  our  surroundings 
ceased  to  exist  for  me.  I  was  conscious  only 
of  the  big,  fine  man  sitting  opposite  me, 
telling  me  of  the  things  that  are  worth  while. 

While  we  waited  in  the  pleasant,  expect- 
ant atmosphere  which  pervades  the  theater 
before  the  going  up  of  the  curtain  I  ac- 
knowledged to  myself  that  "I  still  have  some 
youth  left."  The  evening  melted  away. 
As  the  final  curtain  went  down,  a  feeling 
of  desolation  swept  over  me. 

"Oh,  dear,"  I  thought,  "I  have  forgotten 
myself.  I  must  hurry  up  and  find  myself. 
I  wish  I  did  not  care  so  much.  Betty 
Moore,  you  mustn't  wish  such  things;  a 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      97 

nice  state  of  affairs  it  will  be  when  you 
become  as  indifferent  to  suffering  as  you 
were  wishing." 

Billy  did  not  reach  the  theater  or  the 
theater  train,  but  there  was  a  message 
for  me  at  home,  saying  he  would  be  home 
on  the  twelve-thirty. 

After  Fred  had  said  good-night  and  gone 
to  his  room  I  was  surprised  to  find  my- 
self with  a  new  and  secure  sensation  of 
happiness. 

Fred's  personality  affects  me,  as  I  know 
it  does  others,  with  a  stimulating  desire  to 
make  the  most  of  the  best  in  life. 

After  all,  it  is  something  to  have  a  mis- 
sion, and  I  certainly  have  one,  in  attempt- 
ing to  keep  Billy  from  ruin. 


XVII 

April  17,  1908. 

1AM  acquiring  a  habit  of  going  to 
Elizabeth  Bainbridge  with  my  diffi- 
culties. She  seldom  can  leave  home, 
as  she  does  her  own  housework.  Therefore 
I  go  to  her,  which  is  of  itself  a  help.  To 
see  her  peaceful  but  busy  home  is  an 
inspiration. 

What  foolish  victims  most  of  us  women 
are  to  the  machinery  of  ours! 

To-day  when  I  reached  her  house  she 
was  seated  before  an  immense  basket  of 
mending,  the  ever-present  volume  by  her 
side.  To-day  it  happened  to  be  the  Bible, 
opened  at  Psalms. 

"Well,  Betty,  what  problem  are  you 
bringing  me  to  solve?"  she  questioned. 

I  blushed  with  the  consciousness  that  I 
always  go  to  her  for  something. 

"Do  you  know,"     I  said,  "I  have  just 

realized  this  minute  that  this  is  a  one-sided 

friendship.     I    never    give    you    anything; 

but  I  demand  monstrous  things  from  you." 

98 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL      99 

"My  dear,"  she  spoke  with  tender 
seriousness,  "on  the  contrary,  it  is  per- 
fectly equal.  You  bring  yourself,  which  is 
a  pleasure  to  me;  besides  that,  you  bring 
me  the  world  in  which  you  live.  You  save 
me  a  great  deal  of  time,  for  I  can  see 
through  your  translation  a  week's  life  in 
any  hour." 

"Yes,  but  what  does  that  amount  to? 
As  far  as  worth  of  living  is  concerned,  a 
week  could  easily  be  condensed  into  an 
hour,"  I  said  disgustedly. 

"Oh,  Betty  dear,  don't  allow  yourself 
to  look  at  things  in  that  manner,"  she 
continued.  "You  have  told  me  you  don't 
like  your  manner  of  living,  but  that  those 
are  conditions  over  which  you  have .  no 
control.  Now  when  a  woman  faces  that 
problem  she  must  avoid  pessimism.  A  dis- 
satisfaction with  yourself  and  with  things 
ignoble  in  your  life  is  permissible,  but 
don't  let  that  dissatisfaction  develop  into 
a  monster  which  casts  a  shadow  so  black 
it  prevents  you  from  seeing  a  possible 
unknown  and  beautiful  opportunity.  What 
is  it  to-day,  dear?" 


ioo      BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Since  you  have  convinced  me  of  the 
importance  of  the  environment,  even  in 
the  earliest  years,  of  our  children's  lives,  I 
have  begun  to  lie  awake  nights  worrying 
about  Sonny's  future,"  I  replied.  "I  have 
been  watching  the  older  children  of  my 
friends  and  noticing  the  conditions  under 
which  they  are  growing  up.  One  of  my 
friends,  a  mother  of  boys,  said  to  me  yester- 
day that  it  seemed  to  her  that  present-day 
civilization  made  it  almost  impossible  for 
her  boys  to  escape  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil.  Since  infancy  the  boys 
have  been  surrounded  with  every  luxury. 
The  mother  has  been,  as  you  describe  it, 
'busy,'  and  is  just  awaking  to  the  realiza- 
tion that  there  are  no  opportunities  in 
the  home  for  the  boys  to  learn  to  be  useful 
members  of  society.  There  seems  no  logical 
reason  for  the  boys  waiting  on  themselves, 
much  less  doing  something  for  the  other 
members  of  the  family.  The  father  wishes 
a  large  establishment  and  the  requisite 
number  of  servants.  What  can  she,  the 
mother,  do  to  create  conditions  where  her 
boys  are  called  upon  to  exercise  self-control 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL     101 

and  unselfish  service  for  others?  Her 
problem  will  soon  be  mine,  only  I  have  had 
my  attention  called  to  the  result  a  few 
years  earlier.  Is  the  world  different  to- 
day, or  did  mothers  always  have  their 
difficulties  to  encounter?" 

"I  imagine,"  she  said,  "mothers  always 
have  and  always  will  have  problems  to 
solve  and  difficulties  to  meet,  but  I  think 
at  the  present  day  among  the  well-to-do 
in  this  country  the  mothers  must  be  very 
wise  and  very  strong  to  be  able  to  control 
the  environment  in  the  youth  of  their 
little  ones." 

"Tell  me,  please,  what  you  think  I  can  do 
for  my  boy,  to  make  it  possible  for  him 
to  become  a  fine,  useful  man?" 

"The  first  thing,"  she  said,  "I  would 
try  to  do  is  to  give  him  brothers  and  sisters. 
Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say," 
as  I  started  to  speak.  "Yes,  you  can 
afford  it,  and  your  health  will  permit. 
You  have  a  big  work  before  you,  you  women 
of  the  twentieth  century.  You  can't  do 
it  all  in  your  lifetime,  but  you  can  start 
the  pendulum  swinging  the  other  way. 


102    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

You  can  afford  it  easily,  if  you  will  spend 
the  same  amount  on  four  children  that  you 
spend  on  one.  Yes,  it  is  perfectly  possible, 
and  the  child  will  be  the  better  for  it. 
Use  your  brains  and  your  hands;  that's 
what  they  were  given  you  for.  Your 
health  will  be  the  better  for  bearing  children. 
It  isn't  the  multiplying  of  your  kind  that 
is  causing  the  ill  health  and  the  nerves 
nowadays.  No  wonder  your  husbands 
don't  want  more  children — you  make  it  too 
expensive  and  unpleasant  for  them.  You 
aren't  to  blame  for  present-day  standards 
and  conditions,  but  you  will  be  shirking 
your  duty  if  you  don't  try,  every  woman 
of  you,  to  change  them.  Your  child's 
education  begins  with  yourself.  It  isn't 
necessary  for  him  to  have  all  his  wants 
gratified,  any  more  than  it  is  for  you. 
You  know  you  are  a  lot  better  off  if  you 
have  things  to  wish  for.  Now  remember, 
Betty,  this  sermon  is  for  you  and  your 
kind,  the  wives  of  men  whose  income  is 
over  five  thousand  dollars  a  year.  If  you 
continue  to  neglect  the  use  of  your  func- 
tions the  next  generation  of  man  borne  of 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    103 

your  kind  will  be  a  helpless  creature 
physically,  mentally  and  morally." 

"I  don't  like  to  disagree  with  you, 
Elizabeth,"  I  argued,  "but  I  don't  see  how 
your  remedy  is  going  to  solve  our  problems. 
I  can't  understand  how  increasing  the  size 
of  our  families  will  do  away  with  all  the 
difficulties." 

"It  won't  do  everything,  Betty,  but  it 
will  start  you  in  the  right  direction  and 
make  it  possible  for  you  to  accomplish 
the  things  your  nobler  instincts  prompt 
you  to  do.  If  you  will  study  the  world  of 
your  child  to-day  your  common  sense  will 
tell  you  that  things  are  all  wrong.  Of 
course  things  never  have  been  perfect, 
but  there  are  more  opportunities  now  than 
ever  before  in  the  world's  history  for  mothers 
to  create  and  rear  noble  offspring.  It  will 
be  your  own  regeneration." 

"Oh,  dear,  I  can't  quite  grasp  it,"  I 
sighed.  "Jean  says  it  is  quality,  not 
quantity,  of  children  we  want,  and  that  a 
woman  has  many  more  opportunities  of 
doing  things  for  others  if  she  isn't  tied  down 
with  babies,  year  after  year.  She  thinks 


io4    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

it  is  nobler  to  forego  having  many  children 
and  use  your  time  and  strength  for  your 
husband,  your  friends,  and  those  less 
fortunate.  She  says  there  is  so  much  to 
be  done  in  'bettering  things.'  " 

"Of  course  you  want  quality,  Betty. 
That's  a  foolish  argument.  The  women 
who  have  one  or  two  children  among  you 
are  not  the  ones  who  do  the  things  Jean 
suggests,  unless  it  is  spending  your  time 
and  strength  visiting  with  your  friends. 
Leave  the  'bettering  of  things  in  general' 
to  women  who  have  raised  their  families 
and  to  those  who  haven't  any.  You  will 
be  able  to  do  all  such  things  later,  when 
you  are  older  and  wiser  women.  I  don't 
mean  you  are  to  be  indifferent  to  the 
world's  pain.  It  is  a  near  duty  for  you  to 
know  of  good  and  evil  in  the  world  you 
live  in,  to  be  alive  to  any  opportunity  for 
helping  the  good  and  crushing  the  evil. 
If  you  learn  to  choose  the  essentials  of 
good  in  a  woman's  life,  and  stick  to  living 
them,  you  will  be  doing  your  share  of 
your  work  toward  humanity.  -  There  are 
a  lot  of  noble  women  doing  a  big,  hard 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    105 

work  for  suffering  humanity,  and  you  can 
help  them  right  in  your  home;  but  help 
them,  don't  hinder  them,  as  many  of 
you  are  doing  every  day  of  your  lives. 
I  can't  understand  how  you  women  can 
ignore  your  debt  to  humanity,  as  many  of 
you  do.  You  seem  to  think  your  own  lives 
and  your  children's  lives  are  your  own,  to 
play  with  as  you  choose.  You  have  no 
right  to  cut  yourself  off  from  the  big  suffer- 
ing world  and  say,  'I  am  going  to  do  this 
and  that;  it  suits  my  own  end  and  purpose 
to  do  so.'  You  must  consider  your  life  as 
a  part  of  a  whole;  no  matter  how  insig- 
nificant an  atom,  it  is  a  part  of  the  big 
All.  It  is  impossible  for  you  to  fritter  and 
play  away  your  own  personal  life  without 
injury  to  others.  It  is  impossible  for  you 
to  hope  for  immortality  unless  you  remember 
the  Others." 


XVIII 

May  16,  1908. 

•\  7ESTERDAY  was  one  of  those  unsat- 

Y      isfactory  days,  a  day  when  I  rushed 

from  one  social  activity  to  another. 

Playing  in  a  golf  tournament  for  the  women 

in  the  morning,  I  hurried  home  to  dress  for 

a  luncheon.      The  hostess  was  charming, 

her  home    artistic,  the   luncheon  perfect, 

and   the   women   guests  were  ornamental 

in  the  extreme. 

I  started  in  the  day  dissatisfied  with 
everything  and  everybody,  and  particu- 
larly with  myself.  I  didn't  like  myself 
or  the  things  I  was  doing.  If  I  had  any 
definite  wish  it  was  that  I  could  change 
places  with  some  hard-working  West  Side 
mother. 

At  luncheon  I  was  seated  between  a 
young  girl  who  related  to  me  the  latest 
bit  of  town  gossip  and  a  woman  who  had 
nervous  indigestion  caused  from  her  "busy 
life."  I  looked  longingly  down  to  trie 
other  end  of  the  table  where  Mrs.  Morse 

106 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    107 

told,  in  her  dignified,  beautiful  voice,  of  a 
trip  across  the  plains  forty  years  ago.  I 
wished  I  were  near  her,  to  feel  the  soothing 
effect  of  her  presence.  I  am  sure  she 
didn't  spend  her  youth  running  around  the 
way  we  do.  She  has  something  back  of 
her,  and  approaches  old  age  with  dignity 
and  content.  She  is  visiting  her  daughter, 
who  is  just  as  foolish  as  any  of  us. 

It  seemed  to  me  the  women  were  unusu- 
ally frivolous  and  meaningless  in  their  con- 
versation. When  we  meet  each  other  after 
a  few  hours'  absence  we  have  a  way  of 
recounting  in  detail  everything  we  have  been 
doing  and  saying  in  the  interval.  I  could 
hear  Jean  saying  to  Nelle:  "I  have  just 
rushed  every  minute  this  day.  I  got  up 
and  took  the  eight  o'clock  train  into  New 
York.  I  shopped  like  mad.  I  bought 
shoes  for  Georgiana  and  a  suit  for  Ray, 
and  caught  the  eleven-thirty  back.  Then 
I  jumped  into  the  tub,  with  the  children 
calling  to  me  about  what  they  wanted  to 
do  this  afternoon.  My  hair  acted  awful, 
and  I  had  just  ten  minutes  to  get  into  my 
clothes  when  Bertha  Morgan  called  me  on 


io8    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

the  'phone,  and  you  know  how  she  talks. 
With  Sarah  hooking  my  dress  and  mother 
helping,  I  managed  to  make  it." 

Now  Jean  is  a  fine,  sensible  girl  under- 
neath, and  capable  of  being  a  real  woman, 
but  like  all  of  us  she]  does  not  seem  to 
be  able  to  rise  above  her  own  material 
civilization. 

There  are  some  of  us  who  wish  things 
were  not  as  they  are.  Perhaps  if  enough 
of  us  decided  to  better  things,  to  stop 
rushing,  and  think,  we  might  change  this 
material  civilization  into  something  nobler 
and  higher. 

I  was  enjoying  Mrs.  Morse  and  her  calm, 
sweet  face,  when  the  "nervous  indigestion" 
woman  said:  "Oh,  Mrs.  Bennett,  aren't 
you  glad  you  aren't  as  old  as  that  lady 
talking  (meaning  Mrs.  Morse)?  Don't 
you  hate  to  grow  old?" 

"Not  if  I  could  grow  old  the  way  she 
is,"  I  replied. 

"You  wouldn't?"  she  gasped  in  amaze- 
ment. "Look  at  the  lines  in  her  face. 
Now  there's  Mrs.  Burridge, — see,  the  woman 
next  to  Mrs.  Lamson, — she  must  be  as  old 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    109 

as  Mrs.  Morse.  She  has  a  married  son, 
but  you  would  never  know  it." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  I  replied.  "How 
does  she  do  it?" 

"Why,  she  takes  care  of  herself,  of 
course;  she  has  Madame  Gascon  for  facial 
massage  three  times  a  week,  besides  a  lot 
of  other  things.  It  takes  a  lot  of  time,  but 
it's  worth  it,  don't  you  think?" 

I  looked  at  the  two  women,  and  I  decided 
it  was  not.  If  the  arduous  and  time-steal- 
ing care  of  the  physical  robs  the  woman's 
face  of  the  expression  of  the  spiritual  and 
mental,  I  quite  prefer  the  lines  of  time.  I 
did  not  quite  say  that  to  my  questioner, 
but  I  did  say: 

"  I  think  I  like  the  lines  in  Mrs.  Morse's 
face  better  than  the  smooth  expressionless 
roundness  of  Mrs.  Burridge. " 

"How  can  you!"  she  exclaimed  in  amaze- 
ment. "You  know  husbands  like  to  have 
you  keep  young.  You  are  liable  to  be 
sorry  if  you  don't." 

Is  that  true?  Must  I  sacrifice  precious 
hours,  waste  time  and  thought,  keeping 
my  face  round  and  young  to  gratify  my 


no    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

husband's  eye?  Must  I  depend  on  my 
physical  charms  to  keep  his  allegiance 
through  the  years  to  come?  If  I  were  a 
man  I  am  sure  I  should  demand  something 
more  satisfying  than  the  youthful  and 
immature  face  of  merely  physical  per- 
fectness. 


XIX 

June  16,  1908. 

HAVING  to  keep  quiet  the  past  two 
weeks  on  account  of  a  sprained 
ankle,  I  have  had  time  to  read  a 
number  of  books. 

What  a  perfectly  lovely  thing  it  is  to 
have  some  "spare  time"!  I  can  imagine 
an  ideal  condition  where  one  would  have 
a  few  hours  a  week  of  "spare  life,"  but  I 
can't  come  anywhere  near  creating  that 
condition.  I  have  read  fast  and  furiously 
the  past  few  days,  as  the  living-room  table 
was  piled  high  with  new  novels  which  I  had 
not  had  time  to  peruse.  I  don't  believe 
I  am  benefited  in  any  way  for  having  read 
them.  My  mind  is  fairly  saturated  with 
the  paganism  absorbed  from  their  contents. 

Do  we,  the  people  of  to-day,  live  as  the 
majority  of  modern  novelists  depict  us, 
ignoring  Christianity?  I  hope  that  these 
modern  novels  are  not  true  pictures  of  our 
men  and  women,  but  that  the  writers 
choose  to  create  imaginary  creatures, 


ii2    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

through  whom  they  may  preach  their  gospel 
of  paganism.  The  idea  that  these  beings, 
with  their  materialistic  ideas,  their  creed 
of  fatalism,  their  belief  only  in  individualism, 
and  their  sensuousness,  are  us,  is  abhorrent. 
-  May  we  refuse  to  accept  as  a  part  of  our 
literature  the  novel  of  to-day,  in  which 
the  ethics  of  two  thousand  years'  evolution 
of  Christianity  is  discarded  for  a  new 
paganism? 

What  has  become  of  the  belief  in  the 
redemptive  power  of  Christianity?  Do  we 
ignore  it  in  our  own  lives,  as  the  modern 
novelist  does  in  his  book? 

I  hope  some  men  and  women  of  our 
to-day  will  arise  from  the  vast  throng  of 
writers  and  write  books  that  our  grand- 
sons and  granddaughters  may  read  with 
profit,  books  that  may  stand  on  the  shelves 
beside  Dickens,  Scott,  and  Hawthorne,  with- 
out mortification  to  us,  teaching  the  funda- 
mental truths  of  Christianity,  reminding  us 
of  the  great  transfiguring  power  of  the 
Christian  religion. 

How  are  the  coming  millions  of  the 
earth's  human  creatures  to  live  their  lives, 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    113 

pass  through  affliction,  suffer  sickness,  pov- 
erty, and  death,  if  they  ignore  the  solace 
of  Christianity  and  accept  the  gospel  of 
fatalism  preached  through  our  books? 

June  20,  1908. 

I  have  accumulated  large  bunches  of 
resolutions  during  my  enforced  rest. 

The  first  resolve  is  to  arrange  my  waking 
hours  so  that  I  may  have  a  few  intervals 
of  "spare  life." 

I  remember  in  my  childhood  hearing  my 
dear  and  noble  grandmother  tell  how  she 
reserved  thirty  minutes  out  of  every  day 
of  her  life  for  herself,  to  be  spent  in  the 
quiet  of  her  own  room,  reading  and  think- 
ing. The  books  she  read  were  real  litera- 
ture. She  said  that  this  interval  of  quiet 
was  invaluable  to  her;  it  gave  her  an 
opportunity  to  acquire  a  sane  point  of 
view  of  her  surroundings  and  a  chance  to 
hold  her  self-poise  in  the  turmoil  of  living, 
for  adverse  circumstances  surrounded  her 
with  difficulties  to  be  met. 

If  she  needed  this  hour  of  calm  and  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  it,  surely  I  may  find 


ii4    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

profit  in  following  her  example.  I  firmly 
resolve  to  establish  some  regularity  in  my 
day.  It  starts  well,  Billy  leaving  usually 
on  the  half -past  eight  train  for  the  city, 
but  while  the  day  is  still  young  the  tele- 
phone is  liable  to  ring  and  a  friend  persuade 
me  to  insert  in  my  day's  program  some 
unexpected  doing.  Jean,  Nelle,  or  some 
one  will  say,  "Betty,  jump  in  your  electric 
and  come  over;  I  want  to  see  you  about 
something  important";  or  "I  have  to  go 
on  the  eleven-four  to  New  York,  and  you 
have  got  to  go  with  me. "  Although  I  often 
make  a  feeble  protest,  of  course  I  go,  and 
there  is  the  end  of  that  day. 

The  past  week  I  have  thought  about 
the  irregularity  of  my  life  and  made  up  my 
mind  it  has  a  lot  to  do  with  my  lack  of 
accomplishment.  Why,  I  haven't  any  more 
concentration  than  a  flea,  and  there  are  a 
lot  of  women  as  I  am.  The  men  go  to 
their  business,  the  children  to  their  school, 
and  we  women — to  what?  A  little  of 
everything.  No  wonder  we  have  become 
"unproductive  creatures."  When  one 
thinks  of  the  limitless  possibilities  of  the 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    115 

achievement  attainable  by  the  human  in- 
tellect, and  compares  it  with  the  actuality 
in  our  lives,  the  contrast  is  mortifying  to 
us  women  of  leisure  with  "no  time."  We 
have  lost  the  appreciation  of  time,  and 
become  victims  of  the  nervous  strenuous- 
ness  of  the  twentieth  century. 

Intellect  and  wealth  spell  power.  Intel- 
lect we  women  have  dormant  within  us. 
Wealth  we  have  enough  of  to  assure  us 
leisure  hours.  We  are  very  valuable  crea- 
tures of  this  earth,  if  we  estimate  our  worth 
by  the  cost  of  our  physical  properties,  food, 
raiment,  and  activities.  I  shudder  when 
I  compute  what  part  of  the  world's  pro- 
ductions has  gone  toward  my  own  existence 
during  the  past  year,  and  I  shrink  in  self- 
abasement  when  I  think  of  my  non-pro- 
ductivity. I  have  absorbed  this  large 
personal  share  and  have  yielded  almost 
nothing  in  return.  If  the  amount  had  been 
distributed  among  six  women  who  use 
their  intellect  and  leisure  time  to  good 
advantage  the  world's  good  would  have 
been  increased.  I  tremble  with  misgiving 
when  the  question  arises  in  my  mind: 


n6    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Have  I,  by  taking  much  and  giving 
little,  added  to  the  inequality  of  division 
which  has  existed  since  the  beginning  of 
history?"  There  is  just  so  much  to  be 
divided,  and  if  I  accept  more  than  my 
share  am  I  not  robbing  some  other?  In 
addition,  if  I  neglect  to  disburse  my  ex- 
penditures in  a  wise  manner,  am  I  not 
misdirecting  force? 

Now  while  my  resolutions  are  vigorous 
I  am  going  to  set  myself  the  task  of  accom- 
plishing something  essential  to  others  each 
day.  Now  while  my  brain  is  clear,  the 
result  of  the  past  calm  weeks,  I  am  going 
to  weigh  the  useful  and  the  useless  in  my 
days,  and  attempt  to  increase  the  former 
and  lessen  the  latter.  I  imagine  it  will  be 
almost  entirely  a  process  of  elimination 
at  first. 

June  21,  1908. 

As  I  was  in  the  midst  of  making  a  mental 
map  of  my  days  Elizabeth  Bainbridge  came 
to  see  me. 

I  told  her  what  I  was  resolving  and  asked 
her  how  I  should  commence  the  recon- 
structive policy  of  my  time. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    117 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin,"  I  com- 
plained. 

"Well,  Betty,  it  depends  on  how  much 
in  earnest  you  are,"  she  said.  "If  you 
mean  to  do  things  you  will  have  to  re- 
adjust your  point  of  view." 

"Point  of  view,  Elizabeth!  Why,  my 
point  of  view  resembles  a  lobster's!  I  see 
things  at  all  kinds  of  angles,  and  move 
erratically  and  ineffectually  forward,  then 
backward, — mostly  backward." 

"Then,"  she  continued,  "after  you  have 
readjusted  your  valuations — " 

"Excuse  me,  Elizabeth,"  I  interrupted. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  readjusted  valu- 
ations?" 

"Well,  I  imagine,"  she  explained,  "when 
you  begin  to  eliminate  unessentials  you  will 
soon  find  facts  of  your  existence  assuming 
entirely  different  values  than  in  the  past. 
Seemingly  important  major  things  will 
become  unimportant  minor  things." 

"Tell  me,"  I  demanded,  "how  I  may 
reduce  to  orderly  worth  the  chaotic  worth- 
lessness  of  my  living.  My  life  during  the 
last  year  has  been  a  sort  of  continuous 


n8    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

performance  of  doing  nothing  in  particular. " 
"I  don't  believe,  Betty,"  she  said, 
"your  life  is  anywhere  near  as  futile  as  you 
believe  it  to  be;  but  I  will  suppose  it  is  as 
you  insist,  and  prescribe  my  remedy.  I 
would  select,  first,  my  duties,  my  near 
duties, — husband,  children,  and  home.  If 
your  instinct  doesn't  tell  you  what  these 
duties  are,  make  a  study  of  them.  They 
are  before  everything  else  your  business. 
We  women  of  the  younger  generation  are 
apt  to  look  somewhat  disdainfully  at  the 
painstaking  domesticity  of  our  mothers' 
and  grandmothers'  generations.  Yet  our 
swiftly  moving,  generalizing  method  has 
fully  as  many  disadvantages  as  their  'nose 
to  the  grindstone'  kind  of  housekeeping. 
We  need  to  study  details  and  use  our  hands 
more  than  we  do.  A  small  portion  of  the 
day  expended  in  physical  exertion  for  our 
home  and  children  will  assist  in  the  order 
you  are  desiring." 

"Elizabeth,  would  you  give  up  golf  and 
bridge,  luncheons,  teas,  and  matine'es?" 
I  interposed.  "For  I  can't  fulfill  regularly 
duties,  however  light,  if  I  do  those  things." 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    119 

"There  is  where  your  revaluation  of 
things  comes  in,"  she  said.  "//  you  prefer 
those  things  to  other  activities  and  can 
decide  they  help  you  live  a  more  complete 
life,  if  they  do  not  interfere  with  your  duty 
to  husband,  home,  and  children,  then  do 
them." 

"With  all  those  "ifs,"  I  couldn't  enjoy 
them,  you  know  very  well,"  I  complained. 

"I  would  suggest,  Betty,"  she  said, 
"that  you  choose  one,  or  at  most  two, 
of  the  frivolities,  but  don't  attempt  them 
all.  It  is  different  when  women  have  raised 
their  families  or  haven't  any,  but  it's  a 
mistake  for  the  young  matrons  to  expend) 
their  energies  in  so  many  directions.  You 
harm  yourselves,  your  husband,  your  living 
children,  and  your  unborn  children,  for 
it  is  impossible  for  you  to  retain  healthy 
nerves  with  so  many  distractions.  It 
isn't  because  any  one  of  these  pastimes  is 
harmful,  but  because  the  American  mother 
of  to-day  attempts  to  enjoy  multitudinous 
amusements  to  the  detriment  of  soul  and 
body.  The  young  women,  who  are,  or 
rather  should  be,  so  important  a  factor  in 


120    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

the  civilization,  present  and  future,  ought 
to  reserve  their  best  strength,  physical, 
mental,  and  moral,  for  the  home." 

"Elizabeth,  don't  you  think,"  I  ven- 
tured, "if  we  gave  ourselves  up  entirely 
to  home  making  we  would  become  narrow, 
uninteresting  creatures  in  a  short  time?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  she  replied.  "Home 
making  may  become  an  artistic  achieve- 
ment. You  may  develop  all  sorts  of 
unexpected  possibilities  in  yourself  in  per- 
fecting the  vocation  of  home  making. 
Besides,  I  did  not  suggest  that  you  give  up 
yourself  entirely  to  home.  I  said,  let  it  come 
first.  It  isn't  first  with  you  now,  is  it?" 

"No,  you  are  right;  it  isn't,"  I  admitted. 
"The  calmness  of  the  past  weeks,  I  realize, 
now  you  suggest  it,  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
I  have  been  able  to  enjoy  my  domestic 
duties  free  from  hurry  and  the  confusion 
caused  by  too  many  outside  interests;  but 
I  don't  like  to  think  of  reducing  the  number 
of  my  friends,  and  I  can't  see  how  I  can 
increase  my  spare  time  without  denying 
myself  the  pleasure  of  their  companionship." 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "you  will  have  to 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    12 1 

do  things  you  would  rather  not  do  if  you 
are  going  to  reconstruct  your  daily  living 
toward  the  end  you  spoke  of.  However, 
you  do  not  need  to  reduce  the  number  of 
your  friends;  but  you  will  have  to  elimi- 
nate a  good  many  hours  of  visiting  with 
those  friends.  The  manner  in  which  you 
young  women  visit,  visit,  astonishes  me. 

"How  can  you  give  anything  of  your 
real  value  to  each  other  by  this  constant 
and  everlasting  morning,  noon,  and  night 
companionship?  Friendship  is  a  precious 
thing,  but  even  yet,  'familiarity  breeds 
contempt.'  True  friendship  does  not  de- 
mand the  constant  being  together  of  those 
between  whom  it  exists.  You  will  enjoy 
and  profit  more  by  the  time  spent  with 
your  friends  if  the  hours  are  fewer  and  the 
interval  of  separation  longer.  The  con- 
tinual sharing  of  feminine  confidences  be- 
comes a  harmful  habit  that  weakens  the 
moral  fiber,  and  I  am  confident  you  will 
have  to  acknowledge  that  you  could  con- 
dense several  days'  intimacies  with  your 
numerous  women  friends  into  a  very  few 
minutes'  conversation,  if  it  were  not  for 


122    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

the  habit  you  have  of  prolonged  discussion 
of  trivialities. " 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are  right,"  I  admitted. 
"I  shall  be  able  to  save  time  in  that  di- 
rection, if  I  can  persuade  myself  to  do 
it.  Suggest  something  else,  please." 

"Well,  another  thing  I  would  do,"  she 
said,  "is  to  curtail  my  shopping.  You 
women  spend  too  much  time  and  too  much 
money  shopping.  You  could  be  happy 
and  comfortable  with  about  one  third  less 
than  you  buy.  If  you  are  content  with 
fewer  clothes,  several  of  your  friends  will 
be  also.  Example  is  a  contagious  thing. 
Every  woman,  with  hardly  an  exception, 
loves  beautiful  feminine  apparel;  but  you 
can  be  charmingly  clad  without  forfeiting 
your  dignity,  and  it  seems  to  me  the  habit 
of  adopting  the  latest  dictates  of  Dame 
Fashion,  regardless  of  cost,  time,  modesty, 
or  comfort,  is  not  dignified.  Be  more  con- 
servative in  the  robing  of  your  person;  it 
will  save  you  time,  money,  and  strength. 
What  makes  you  smile,  Betty?" 

"I  was  thinking,"  I  replied,  "how  dis- 
tasteful your  advice  would  be  to  most  of 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    123 

my  friends  and  how  uninterested  I  would 
have  been  a  year  ago,  before  I  knew  you 
and  heard  from  you  your  valuations  of  life. 
Now  I  can  appreciate  your  views.  Since  I 
have  known  you  I  have  learned  to  look  at 
life  in  a  different  way.  I  have  learned  to 
value  things  of  whose  existence  I  was 
unconscious.  The  most  important  is  the 
realization  of  the  unseen  possibilities  of  my 
life, — to  know,  no  matter  though  I  am  one 
of  billions  of  God's  creatures,  it  is  just  as 
necessary  I  should  fulfill  that  which  I  may, 
as  it  was  when  Adam  and  Eve  walked  under 
God's  commands  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 
It  matters  if  I  leave  undone  any  detail  of 
the  work  that  in  being  born  as  I  am  I  have 
the  possibility  of  doing.  I  have  learned 
to  realize  the  importance  of  the  closeness 
of  contact  of  my  life  with  other  lives. 
While  the  responsibility  of  having  my  life 
so  interwoven  with  fellow  creatures  some- 
times troubles  me,  through  it  I  am  learning 
every  day  to  appreciate  more  the  mystery 
of  existence.  How  meaningless  and  foolish 
my  life  would  look  if  I  were  working  out 
my  own  little  pattern.  How  full  of  meaning 


i24    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

and  how  dignified  it  appears,  when  I  think 
of  it  as  a  necessary  thread  woven  through 
the  great  whole. 

"This,  Elizabeth,  you  have  shown  me, 
and  now  I  know  that  it  does  matter  what 
you  or  I  do,  what  you  or  I  think.  It 
matters  very,  very  much,  in  the  great 
scheme  of  civilization.  No  use  saying  we 
are  but  atoms,  we  won't  move  the  scales 
in  the  balance.  We  might  be  just  the  one 
atom  necessary  to  change  the  balance  for 
either  side,  the  perfect  or  the  imperfect." 


XX 

July  28,  1908. 

I   MADE  Elizabeth  Bainbridge  go  with 
me  for  an  automobile  ride   into  the 
country.      We  took  two  of  her  chil- 
dren and  drove  into  the  woods,  where  we 
spread  a  lunch  for  the  youngsters.    After- 
wards, they  played  and  we  sat,  pretending 
to  sew,  but  really  just  absorbing  the  sur- 
rounding beautiful  stillness  and  watching 
the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  woods. 

Thinking  of  Nelle's  question  of  the  day 
before,  I  ventured  to  ask  Elizabeth  what 
Nelle  asked  me:  "Why  did  the  Lord  make 
sex  lust  so  strong  in  men?" 

"I  think  the  Lord  made  that  instinct 
thus  for  mighty  reasons,"  she  replied. 

"Look,  Elizabeth,"  I  said,  "at  the  awful 
things  that  result  from  this  lust  of  man; 
see  the  hordes  of  humanity  with  vile 
inheritance  begotten  of  selfish  men  beasts; 
see  the  broken  women,  a  menace  to  civiliza- 
tion, who  drag  out  their  weary  hours,  the 
victims  of  sinful  lust." 
125 


126    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Yes,  Betty,  things  ought  to  be  better  in 
this  beautiful  world,  with  its  wonderful 
possibilities;  and  I  have  a  hope  in  my 
heart  that  they  are  going  to  be.  You  or 
I  won't  see  the  things  I  dream  are  going  to 
come  to  pass.  I  believe  the  day  will  come 
when  woman  will  have  the  power  to  cleanse 
the  world  of  much  sin;  the  hour  is  near 
when  men,  despairing  of  their  ability  to 
purify  life,  will  ask  women  to  help  them. 
Not  in  isolated  spots  of  the  globe,  but 
among  all  civilized  nations  men  will  demand 
her  support. 

"The  day  would  have  come  sooner  if 
woman  had  not  failed  in  her  development. 
For  the  last  two  hundred  years  she  has 
been  wasting  her  opportunities.  Let  her 
fulfill  her  mission  as  a  mate  for  man, 
physically,  mentally,  and  morally;  let  her 
bring  forth  and  rear  with  noble  aims  the 
children  of  love,  and  she  may  joy  in  know- 
ing that  she  is  working  toward  the  regenera- 
tion of  mankind. 

"It  is  true  that  countless  numbers  of 
ve.ry  imperfect  beings  are  being  begotten 
yearly;  it  is  true  also  that  women  who  could 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    127 

have  better  children  have  been  bringing 
forth  fewer  every  decade.  That  is  going 
to  change.  Women  are  becoming  satiated 
with  the  present  effervescent  civilization. 
They  are  going  to  appreciate  their  privi- 
leges, and  the  next  two  centuries  women  will 
accomplish  more  than  has  ever  been  done 
by  women  for  the  establishment  of  good 
and  right. 

"Men  are  less  lustful  every  century  of 
the  world's  history.  When  enough  women 
of  our  kind  think  it  worth  their  while  to 
cease  playing  at  living,  and  convince  their 
men  of  the  tightness  of  overcoming  the 
existing  evils  of  impurity,  then  will  things 
begin  to  change.  Our  men  are  the  men 
who  can  change  conditions.  They  are  in 
the  minority,  but  they  can  accomplish 
great  things  if  their  souls  are  inspired  by 
high  ideals.  Who  will  create  these  ideals 
for  them  ?  We  must.  We,  the  puny 
mothers  of  the  twentieth  century,  pro- 
tected and  pampered,  with  no  very  good 
excuse  for  being  so  treated.  It's  the  poor 
mother  bearing  her  large  family  of  weak- 
lings who  should  be  protected. 


128    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"We  smile  in  amusement  at  the  woman 
screaming  for  the  vote.  She  would  not  be 
an  object  of  ridicule,  or  shriek  for  a  right 
to  help  govern,  if  we  would  do  our  part. 
She  doesn't  want  the  vote  for  herself,  but 
the  ails  of  humanity  have  gotten  on  her 
nerves,  and  if  we  won't  help  our  suffer- 
ing sisters  she  must  attempt  an  heroic 
remedy. 

"We  women  can't  houseclean  the  world's 
morals.  It  needs  the  aggressive  and  sus- 
tained force  of  the  male  to  win  moral  as 
well  as  physical  battles  in  the  world's 
work,  but  we  can  supply  a  spiritual  force 
without  which  no  great  good  may  be 
accomplished.  We  women  must  cease  be- 
getting sons  and  daughters  with  wills 
weakened  by  our  indulgences.  We  must 
cease  keeping  our  men's  thoughts  and 
energies  confined  to  material  accomplish- 
ments. We  must  cease  arraying  ourselves 
according  to  the  dictates  of  fashions 
designed  for  the  tempting  of  their  physical 
desires.  We  must  forget  our  present 
physical  selves  and  work  toward  the  future 
ideal  woman.  Then  will  the  man  reach 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    129 

out  to  the  woman  for  help,  and  together 
they  will  fight,  and  win  against  great  odds, 
when  my  dream  comes  true." 


XXI 

August  2,  1908. 

"\  7ESTERDAY  I  went  to  New  York  to 
j[  see  Bridget  Conway,  whose  baby 
died  suddenly  night  before  last.  I 
climbed  the  narrow  stairs  up  to  the  poor 
little  flat  where  she  lives.  My  heart  beat 
in  my  throat  when  I  reached  the  door 
and  knew  it  by  the  badge  of  mourning, 
white  and  startling  in  the  blackness  of 
the  stairway.  I  suddenly  felt  that  I  must 
turn  and  go  down  the  steep  black  stairs 
without  knocking.  I  hadn't  the  courage 
to  meet  what  was  behind  the  closed  door. 
Then  the  thought  of  Dorcas  came  to  me, 
and  I  knew  I  must  go  in. 

Bridget  was  trimming  an  old  hat,  trying 
to  make  its  shabbiness  decent  to  follow 
the  little  dead  baby  to  its  burial.  She  sat 
beside  the  wee,  still  thing,  tearless  and 
brave. 

"Oh,  Miss  Betty,   you  are  surely  come 
in  answer  to  me  prayers,"  she  said  thank- 
fully.    "  I  thought  I  could  dress  the  darlint, 
130 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    131 

but  I  can't.  Whin  I  think  it  is  for  the 
last  toime,  me  fingers  rafuse  to  move. 
Could  you,  Miss  Betty,  dear,  dress  the 
poor,  precious  lamb?" 

The  little  garments,  freshly  laundered  by 
Bridget,  lay  ready  to  put  on  the  still  form. 
Could  I  do  it? 

"Bridget,  dearie,  I  will  try,"  I  said 

The  children  in  the  flat  next  door  were 
shouting  noisily  at  their  dinner,  the  smell 
of  which,  strong  with  garlic  and  boiled 
cabbage,  came  floating  in  the  window. 
Bridget  laid  aside  her  hat  trimming  and 
prepared  a  cup  of  tea  for  me  as  I,  with 
shaking  hands,  dressed  her  baby. 

I  grew  centuries  older  as  I  robed  the 
tiny  corpse.  The  feel  of  the  cold  clay, 
the  odor  of  death  from  the  little  body, 
almost  paralyzed  my  hands. 

What  is  this  thing,  Life?  Where  is 
the  spark  that  a  few  hours  before  warmed 
the  now  chill  body  of  Bridget's  baby? 
Gone  to  seek  the  eternal,  and  she,  poor 
mother,  must  go  on  sweeping  and  baking, 
her  breast  aching  for  the  feel  of  its  little 
head,  her  soul  longing  to  follow  with 


i32    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

protecting  care  the  baby  spirit  gone  on 
its  way  alone  into  the  vast  unknown. 

As  I  folded  the  tiny  marble  hands  I 
realized  Bridget  was  asking  me  if  she 
might  run  down  to  the  near-by  church  and 
say  a  few  prayers.  I  promised  to  stay 
beside  the  bier  until  she  returned. 

While  Bridget  was  away  I  knelt  beside 
the  dead  and  tried  to  realize  the  meaning 
of  it. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  close  to 
human  death.  So  my  Dorcas  must  have 
lain;  so  my  mother,  whom  I  had  never 
known,  slept,  while  I  unconsciously  cooed 
and  prattled.  So  all  over  this  big  world 
mothers,  fathers,  husbands,  and  wives 
anguished  for  the  last  hour  by  the  side  of 
the  beloved  clay  from  which  Life  has  gone. 

After  I  left  Bridget  I  walked  up  Fifth 
Avenue  until  I  reached  St.  Patrick's, 
where  the  open  doors  of  the  great  cathedral 
invite  the  •  passer-by  to  stop  and  contem- 
plate within  its  holy  quiet  the  brevity  of 
human  existence.  I  went  inside  and  knelt 
in  a  far,  dark  corner.  Many  quiet  figures 
passed  in  and  out  as  I  knelt.  Of  those  who 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    133 

came  and  went  the  majority  bore  the  mark 
of  poverty  and  toil,  but  in  all  was  the 
dignity  of  purpose.  They  must  work  to 
live,  and  yet  they  found  time  to  visit  their 
Lord  and  pray  not  only  for  themselves 
but  for  others.  I  shrank  into  my  corner, 
feeling  a  selfish,  purposeless  creature. 

I  had  come  to  seek  solace  for  the  depres- 
sion caused  by  my  nearness  to  death,  to 
pray  for  the  sparing  of  my  dear  ones,  but 
kneeling  in  the  stillness  I  saw  for  a  moment 
the  holiness  of  sorrow,  and  my  prayers 
seemed  like  my  life,  detached  and  selfish. 
Among  those  toil-worn,  earnest,  praying 
ones  I  felt  the  blight  of  my  materially 
comfortable  existence. 

Wfco  am  I,  that  I  should  play  and  luxu- 
riate while  these  others  work  and  weep? 
Surely  they  are  nearer  God  than  I.  I, 
by  my  triviality,  am  denied  the  power  of 
living  to  the  fullness  of  being.  I  wonder 
why  we  spend  so  much  energy  trying  to 
escape  the  discomforts  of  life.  I  suppose 
it  is  the  instinct  within  us  seeking  something 
better.  When  I  think  of  the  valuable 
hours  women  of  my  kind  use  in  seeking 


i34    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

the  comforts  of  mere  existence,  I  wonder 
why  we  do  it.  We  would  be  happier, 
better,  nobler,  if  we  would  accept  what  we 
have  and  use  our  energy  in  working  for 
the  comfort  of  those  who  suffer. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night,  last  night, 
I  could  see  the  worth  of  human  life.  To- 
day it  seems  slipping  away  from  me.  I 
mean  to  keep  some  of  those  prayer  echoes 
that  came  to  me  in  the  cathedral  yesterday. 
The  hour  will  come  for  me,  and  when  it 
comes  it  will  be  as  the  present  hour,  when 
I  will  go  into  the  vastness  of  eternity,  as 
Bridget's  little  baby  has  gone. 

The  awfulness  of  facing  the  knowledge  of 
life  wasted!  To  leave  this  big  suffering 
world  without  knowing  it,  loving  it,  help- 
ing it!  This  divine  spark  burning  within 
my  own  body,  and,  knowing  the  shortness 
of  time,  I  let  it  burn  on  and  out  without 
doing  its  share  toward  lessening  the  pain 
I  leave  behind!  I  resolve  it  shall  not  be. 


XXII 

August  10,  1908. 

BILLY  came  home  yesterday  afternoon 
with  a  severe  headache.  He  looked 
white  and  wretched,  and  I  guessed 
that  he  was  suffering  more  than  the  physi- 
cal misery  of  a  headache. 

I  followed  him  to  our  bedroom  to  see 
what  I  could  do  for  him.  He  threw  him- 
self on  to  the  bed  in  an  abandonment  of 
dejection.  I  stood  and  waited  for  him  to 
turn  to  me. 

Finally  he  spoke,  in  a  voice  choking  with 
emotion. 

"Betty,  do  you  love  me  a  great  deal?" 

I  wondered  what  I  must  do  to  prove  to 
him  the  love  he  so  often  questions.  I  went 
and  knelt  beside  him. 

As  he  lay  there,  miserably  wretched, 
craving  a  love  which  he  doubts  exists  and 
endures  for  him,  my  heart  responded  to 
his  need  and  I  could  say : 

"Yes,  dear;  what  can  I  do  for  you, 
Billy?" 

135 


136    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"When  I  tell  you,  Betty,"  he  replied, 
reaching  up  for  my  hand,  "you  will  refuse 
me." 

"I  will  try  not  to,"  I  answered;  but  I 
feared  to  have  him  tell  me  his  needs. 

"Betty,  I  lost  a  lot  of  money  to-day  on 
the  Board — I  am  dead  broke!" 

He  rose  up  like  a  man,  and  looked  at  me 
honestly,  miserably.  I  breathed  a  prayer 
of  thankfulness.  He  was  telling  me  the 
truth;  he  had  been  unfortunate,  but  he  was 
not  deceiving  me  nor  acting  the  coward. 

He  needed  my  comfort  in  his  defeat  and 
I,  rejoicing  in  his  manhood,  crept  close  to 
his  heart,  holding  his  poor  weary  head, 
kissing  his  despairing  eyes.  I  wondered 
that  I  could  be  so  happy  with  his  sobs 
sounding  in  my  ears.  His  confession  of 
defeat,  as  he  lay  within  the  circle  of  my 
arms,  clinging  to  me  for  comfort,  was  a 
chant  of  victory  for  me. 

I  saw  for  us  the  possibility  of  the  happi- 
ness of  which  I  had  been  despairing.  I 
knew  now  I  had  feared  he  would  deceive 
me  as  he  had  done  in  the  past,  taking  the 
money  I  would  let  him  have  from  time 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    137 

to  time  for  pretended  well-paying  invest- 
ments, even  paying  me  interest.  His  self- 
deception  had  never  allowed  him  to 
acknowledge  his  mistakes. 

Now  he  was  facing  the  truth  and  suffer- 
ing the  agony  of  acknowledged  defeat;  but 
was  he  not  preparing  the  way  for  his  happi- 
ness, the  real  inner  happiness  of  self-vic- 
tory,— the  happiness  which  from  a  dream 
in  our  youth  may  become  as  we  live  and 
suffer  a  vision  realized, — a  beautiful,  intan- 
gible something,  the  spiritual  essence  of 
which  we  may  take  with  us  into  the  beyond, 
yet  leave  behind  its  power  working  for 
God's  good? 

August  12,  1908. 

Billy  went  to  New  York  in  good  spirits 
yesterday  morning,  after  I  had  given  my 
consent  for  the  mortgage  on  the  house. 
I  felt  he  had  a  right  to  that.  He  paid  for 
the  home,  and  he  must  raise  money  some 
way  to  pay  his  debts.  I  am  trying  to  per- 
suade him  to  sell  the  motors.  I  should 
like  to  change  our  scale  of  living;  but  he 
will  not  consent.  He  looked  at  me  in 


i38    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

amazement  when  I  suggested  his  reducing 
his  expenditures  by  resigning  from  several 
clubs  at  least.  "It  can't  be  done,  Betty," 
he  said;  "I  must  keep  up  appearances." 

I  find  on  looking  over  my  accounts  that 
my  own  little  fortune  has  dwindled  to  half 
its  original  amount.  I  have  been  too 
indifferent  to  business  details,  but  I  could 
not  have  refused  Billy  even  if  I  had 
realized  the  condition  of  my  affairs. 

I  should  like  to  talk  to  Fred,  but  I  feel 
a  hesitancy  in  doing  so.  He  has  done  so 
much  for  us,  and  if  he  realizes  how  my 
means  have  evaporated,  and  the  real  con- 
dition of  things,  he  will  try  to  do  more. 
It  distresses  me  that  Billy  will  allow  him 
to  do  so  much. 

I  am  wondering  and  questioning  how 
Billy  is  going  to  be  able  to  meet  our  ex- 
penses, and  I  am  seeking  the  way  to  per- 
suade him  to  live  within  our  income. 

September  2,  1908, 

Billy  has  found  a  way  for  increasing  our 
income — a  plan  that  seems  impossible  for 
me  to  accept,  and  yet  I  have  not  the 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    139 

courage  to  protest.  He  has  persuaded  Fred 
to  come  and  live  with  us.  Fred  insists  on 
paying  a  sum  out  of  all  proportion  to  what 
he  receives,  but  he  insists  he  will  still  be 
the  debtor.  He  says  he  wants  to  have 
a  "home,"  if  only  for  part  of  the  year. 
Fred  does  not  know  of  the  mortgage  on 
the  home,  and  I  do  not  want  him  to. 

Billy  is  growing  haggard  and  wan.  My 
heart  aches  for  him. 

October  3,  1908. 

I  went  out  to  walk  with  just  Dan,  the 
setter,  late  this  afternoon. 

It  is  a  solace  to  be  alone  in  the  big  out- 
of-doors.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  used 
to  think  it  was  hard  to  have  the  sun  shine 
when  I  was  unhappy,  but  I  don't  think  so 
now.  I  want  it  to  smile  and  keep  on 
smiling. 

The  autumn  leaves  crackled  and  rustled 
under  my  feet,  the  dry  underbrush  snapping 
as  Dan  pushed  his  prying  way  through  it. 
All  those  dry  leaves,  tiny  dead  things,  had 
done  their  work;  they  had  burst  into  life 
with  the  spring  warmth,  gladdening  the 


i4o    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

eyes  of  men;  through  the  summer  they  had 
sheltered  God's  creatures  from  sun  and 
storm;  they  had  dropped,  when  their  work 
was  done,  to  cold  Mother  Earth,  giving 
back  to  her  from  whom  they  had  sprung 
the  essence  of  their  tiny  force  undimin- 
ished,  to  be  used  in  producing  more  of 
their  kind  the  following  spring. 

I  tried  to  imagine  how  much  labor  for 
the  "big  outside"  was  due  from  me  in 
comparison  with  the  power  of  the  little 
leaf — I,  endowed  with  immeasurable  power 
in  contrast  to  it. 

It  must  be  a  perpetual  disappointment 
to  the  divine  Creator  of  men  to  witness  the 
failure  of  some  of  us  to  use  our  God-given 
power.  Does  He  ever  regret  the  endow- 
ment of  us  with  immortality?  I  believe, 
instead,  He  feels  a  divine  compassion,  even 
in  the  misuse  of  His  precious  gift.  At  the 
end,  will  I  have  preserved  as  much  soul 
force  to  send  into  the  eternal  as  the  tiny 
leaf  preserved  of  life-giving  energy  to  give 
back  to  Mother  Earth? 

Does  the  all-wise,  all-perfect  One  rejoice 
to  receive  a  soul  strong  and  vigorous, 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    141 

ready  to  help  in  the  beyond,  and  does  He 
not  sorrow  when  any  of  us  approach  the 
hereafter,  our  soul  force  weak  and  helpless 
for  divine  effort? 


XXIII 

December  14,  1908. 

I  HAVE  tried  numerous  times  to  write 
in  this  journal,  but  I  have  not  suc- 
ceeded. I  had  hoped  to  become 
accustomed  to  Fred's  daily  presence,  but 
the  days  have  become  weeks,  the  weeks 
months,  and  daily  I  must  fight  the  same 
temptations.  The  evenings  are  the  times 
of  supreme  trial,  when  I  must  behold  the 
brothers  side  by  side,  hear  their  voices, 
answer  their  questions. 

Last  evening  Billy  had  been  drinking, 
not  much,  but  enough  to  make  him  irri- 
table and  unreasonable.  Fred  wanted 
to  talk  to  me  about  a  sick  child,  a  little 
fellow  in  whom  he  had  become  interested, 
the  son  of  a  man  who  worked  in  one  of  his 
company's  factories.  Billy  interrupted 
persistently,  until  Fred  despaired  of  con- 
tinuing his  conversation  with  me  and 
tried  to  interest  Billy  in  a  business  argu- 
ment. 

I  sat  in  silence,  watching  Sonny  playing 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    143 

in  the  adjoining  room.  I  told  myself: 
"Billy  is  your  husband,  the  father  of 
your  boy."  I  attempted  to  stifle  my 
thoughts  of  Fred,  but  I  did  not  succeed, 
and  rising,  went  to  call  the  boy. 

The  little  fellow  ran  to  meet  me  with  out- 
stretched arms.  With  his  curly  head  so 
like  Billy's  at  my  knee,  as  he  prayed  for 
us  all  my  cry  to  the  heavenly  Father  for 
help  was  answered.  The  baby's  moist 
lips  on  my  cheek,  his  pure  voice,  and 
clinging  arms,  filled  my  heart  with  peace. 
I  knew  that  I  would  in  anguish  pray  again 
for  help,  but  to-night  I  feel  the  assurance 
that  then,  as  now,  my  prayer  will  be 

answered. 

* 

January  I,  1909. 

The  wind  blew  and  the  rain  beat  against 
the  windows  all  last  night. 

What  is  this  I  am  trying  to  find?  I  can 
see  only  little  patches  of  life.  I  have  an 
inner  consciousness  that  life,  clear,  definite, 
and  perfect,  lies  outside  there.  I  think  I 
must  accept  that  it  does.  It  is  there, 
only  I  can't  see  or  understand  it. 


144    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

The  fact  that  I  can't  grasp  things  as  they 
are  does  in  no  way  affect  these  things 
themselves.  I  am  urged  by  a  constant 
insistant  instinct  to  attempt  understanding 
the  perfect  whole  of  which  I  am  a  broken 
part.  It  is  the  belief  in  the  beauty  of  the 
unknown  that  causes  the  urgent  desire  of 
knowing. 

How  wonderfully  soothing  to  think  that 
through  the  maze  of  throbbing  life  the 
way  exists  to  clear  sight  and  perfectness. 
In  hours  of  despair  I  fail  to  remember  that 
it,  the  truth,  is  there,  and  I,  confused  by 
my  seeing  of  things,  make  the  mistake  of 
thinking  they  are  as  I  realize  them.  My 
prayer  is  to  be  able  to  keep  my  blinded 
vision  of  existence  from,  warping  and 
distorting  my  soul,  that  when  the  light  of 
perfect  knowing  comes  I  may  be  able  to 
receive  it. 


XXIV 

REHOBOTH,  VIRGINIA,  May,  IQIO. 

1SIT  by  the  window  of  a  little  house 
which  almost  hangs  from  a  mountain 
top.  Near  and  far,  around  me,  roll- 
ing hills  and  mountains,  green  with  the 
verdure  of  spring,  rise  up  from  a  fragrant 
earth. 

Blue  skies  smile  down  upon  me.  The  sun 
is  setting  in  a  rosy  glory,  its  departing 
beams  stealing  into  this  window  on  the 
mountain  side.  All  is  beautifully  warm 
and  tender  around  me,  but  rebellion  in 
my  heart  chills  my  soul  and  body.  I 
dwell  unfeeling  amidst  the  beauties  of 
God's  handiwork. 

I  look  into  my  mirror  and  tell  the 
woman  who  looks  back  at  me  that  she  is 
wrong,  hard  and  cruel,  but  she  does  not 
feel  it.  She  says:  "I  cannot  forgive  the 
man  who  has  turned  my  heart  to  ice  within 
me." 

She  looks  continually  at  the  past.  Over 
and  over  again  she  lives  the  hour  when  the 
•  145 


146    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

man  with  the  blurred  sight  for  dangers 
ahead  sent  their  child  to  his  sad  fate. 
Constantly  she  feels  the  grinding  of  the 
throbbing  machine  as  under  the  man's 
erring  hands  it  became  a  living  monster 
of  destruction.  Persistently  she  sees  the 
wreck  under  which  their  boy  lay  crushed 
and  maimed — she  hears  the  little  one's 
moan  of  pain. 

I  ask  that  woman  if  she  has  no  pity  in 
her  heart  for  the  man  who  caused  the 
disaster  and  who  daily  begs  forgiveness, 
and  she  says,  "Not  yet." 

Fred,  the  man  with  the  far-seeing,  clear 
eyes  looking  into  the  future,  went  to  the 
woman  in  her  first  anguish  and  said: 

"Betty,  your  husband  begs  me  to  do 
something  to  bring  you  comfort,  and  I, 
knowing  you  cannot  think  just  now  of 
anything  but  your  child's  suffering,  have 
thought  for  you.  I  know  of  a  little  town 
where  plain,  simple  folk  live.  Above, 
nestled  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  is  a 
little  house  where  you  may  dwell.  There 
is  pure,  sweet  air  for  Sonny.  Near  by  there 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL     147 

is  work,   hard  work,   for   Billy.     Do  you 
want  to  go  there,  Betty?" 

The  woman,  trusting  the  man  with  kind, 
far-seeing  eyes,  said,  "Yes." 


XXV 

REHOBOTH,  May  29, 1910. 

I  SAT  by  my  window  on  the  mountain 
top.  The  gleam  of  another  setting 
sun  crept  in  and  touched  lovingly 
the  wan  face  of  my  crippled  boy  as  he 
slept  in  his  cot  near  me.  I  looked  at  his 
emaciated  form,  and  rebellious  anger  surged 
hot  within  me.  I  said:  "I  feel,  I  know, 
nothing,  but  this  child  in  his  suffering." 

The  boy  moaned  in  his  sleep.  I  rose  and 
knelt  by  his  cot,  drowning  my  soul  in  my 
mother's  consciousness.  My  arms  yearned 
to  hold  his  body  to  my  heart.  My  soul 
throbbed  with  aching  desire  to  relieve  his 
pain.  He  awoke  and  looked  into  my  eyes. 
He  asked:  "Mother  dear,  when  will  I  be 
well?" 

I  forced  my  eyes  to  smile  back  into  his, 
and  said:  "Soon,  darling,  soon." 

"  Mother,  there  is  daddy !  Daddy,  mother 
says  I  will  soon  be  well.  Will  you  take 
me  to  the  mine  with  you  the  very  first 
day?" 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    149 

The  man  answered:  "Yes,  my  darling." 

As  the  father  leaned  over  the  child  I 
saw  his  eyes  swimming  with  tenderness. 

I  thought:  "How  much  better  Sonny 
seems  as  soon  as  his  father  comes." 

I  heard  the  father  telling  the  boy  of 
the  vigorous  day  at  the  mine,  of  the  men 
and  boys,  of  the  moving  cars  and  the  descent 
into  the  darkness,  and  how  the  men  worked 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  what  their 
work  meant  to  that  big  outside  world 
above  them. 

I  prepared  the  evening  meal,  as  the  set- 
ting sun  stole  into  the  little  kitchen. 

I  saw  and  heard  the  father  yearning  over 
our  boy.  The  light  from  the  sky  enveloped 
them,  and  the  rebellion  in  my  heart  ceased 
its  pain.  I  was  able  to  understand  that 
the  father  held  deep  within  his  soul  an 
agony  of  self-abasement  and  remorse. 

June  j,  ipio. 

Billy  has  gone  to  his  work  and  Sonny  is 
sleeping.  He  awoke  in  the  night  in  pain, 
and  for  hours  Billy  held  him  in  his  arms. 
I  protest  against  Billy's  working  as  he  does 


iso    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

and  sitting  up  with  Sonny  at  night,  but  I 
have  yielded  to  his  insistence  that  he  be 
allowed  to  nurse  the  child  at  night.  Last 
night  he  made  me  promise  to  lie  quiet 
when  the  child  awoke.  The  moon's  soft 
light  lay  in  white  patches  on  the  floor, 
when  I  heard  Billy  saying: 

"Darling,  let's  be  quiet  as  little  mice 
and  let  tired  mother  rest.  I  will  wrap  you 
warm,  and  tell  you  of  the  little  boy  I  know 
below  us  in  the  valley." 

He  told  the  child  of  the  coal  mine  where 
the  little  trains  dart  down  into  the  black 
earth,  bringing  back  the  power  that  makes 
so  many  other  trains  move,  of  the  men 
who  go  cheerily  down  into  the  blackness, 
leaving  the  sunshine  above,  that  they  may 
provide  for  mothers  and  children  a  little 
home  like  ours.  I  heard  the  loving,  tender 
voice  of  the  father  soothing  the  child,  and 
in  the  holy  quiet  of  the  night  I  saw  a  vision 
of  what  might  be. 

This  morning,  seeing  the  same  man  going 
to  long  hours  of  labor  that  he  may  attain 
the  manhood  he  believes  he  had  lost,  I 
know  my  vision  will  come  true. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    151 

I  think  with  gratitude  of  the  man  who 
looked  into  the  future  and  helped  us  in 
our  need 


XXVI 

July,  1910. 

THE  weeks  have  slipped  by,  and  I 
have  been  too  busy  to  write  of 
them.  It  is  a  different  busy  than 
those  restless  days  of  Meredith  life.  In 
June  Fred  sent  Bridget  Conway  to  me. 
Bridget's  husband  was  killed  in  an  explo- 
sion and  she,  poor  dear,  finds  comfort  in 
caring  for  Sonny.  She  is  such  a  capable 
person,  work  vanishing  as  if  by  magic 
under  her  touch,  that  I  was  soon  left  with- 
out an  occupation. 

I  said  to  her:  "Bridget,  what  am  /  to 
do?" 

"Oi  was  thinkin',"  she  replied,  "you 
might  find  a  heap  to  do  down  in  that 
dirty  town." 

And  I  had  never  thought  of  it!  I  had 
been  living  up  in  the  clouds,  and  down 
below  was  work  waiting  for  me  or  any  one 
with  heart  and  hands. 

Billy  had  spoken  of  a  Mrs.  Durgin. 
He  had  heard  she  had  a  sick  boy  about 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    153 

Sonny's  age,  and  he  wanted  me  to  see  if 
the  child  was  receiving  necessary  medical 
aid. 

I  found  Mrs.  Durgin  preparing  the 
evening  meal.  She  apologized  for  the 
house — with  the  child  sick  she  "couldn't 
get  around  to  the  regular  cleaning."  Poor 
creature,  of  course  she  couldn't!  She  had 
been  up  since  five  in  the  morning,  cooking, 
washing,  and  nursing.  She  had  been 
married  twelve  years,  and  had  seven  living 
children. 

The  sick  boy,  a  child  about  Sonny's  age, 
was  sick  partly  because  his  mother  had 
borne  three  children  in  four  years,  he 
being  the  third,  partly  because  of  poor 
food  and  unintelligent  although  loving 
care. 

I  made  several  other  visits.  I  found 
houses  full  of  children  and  tired  women 
everywhere. 

After  our  own  evening  meal,  and  our 
one  ewe  lamb  had  been  lulled  to  sleep  in 
his  father's  arms,  we  went  outside  our 
cottage  door  and  sat  on  a  bench  which 
Billy  had  built  for  Sonny  to  rest  on. 


154    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Betty,  dear,  may  I  talk  to  you?"  my 
husband  asked. 

For  the  first  time  I  realized  that  Billy 
and  I  were  alone  since  the  tragedy  in  our 
lives.  It  had  been  *"the  boy"  day  and 
night,  week  after  week.  We  had  only  one 
thought,  "our  child,"  and  when  I  turned 
toward  him  and  saw  him  as  he  is,  I  was 
amazed.  I  thought,  "Who  is  this  new  man 
— do  I  know  him?" 

Fear  crept  over  me.  "Yes,  Billy,"  I 
answered. 

I  looked  up  at  the  stars.  What  would 
he  ask  me?  What  could  I  say?  Surely 
my  love  was  not  gone,  the  precious  thing 
I  had  clung  to  and  cherished;  surely  now, 
if  my  husband  cared  as  I  had  cared,  I 
could  want  this  love.  Why,  oh,  why,  must 
my  heart  lie  cold  within  me?  Why  must 
I  feel  as  if  I  did  not  know  this  man,  who 
looked  at  me  as  I  had  prayed  for  him  to 
look — when  my  heart  was  warm?  Did  he 
read  my  thoughts? 

He  had  put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  lift  mine 
from  where  it  lay  beside  me,  but  he  did  not 
touch  me.  His  elbows  on  his  knees,  his 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    155 

hands  clasped,  with  bowed  head  he  talked 
to  me,  but  not  of  himself.  He  talked  to  me 
of  the  men,  the  miners,  and  of  their  lives, 
of  their  homes,  their  work,  and  their 
temptations. 

The  moon  went  down  behind  the  hills. 

August,  1910. 

* 

It  has  become  a  habit  with  us  now  to 
seek  the  out-of-doors  every  evening  after 
the  little  one  sleeps. 

I  asked  Billy  last  night  what  he  thought 
I  could  do  to  help  the  mothers  of  this  town. 

"I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  There 
is  so  much  to  be  done.  At  first  I  carried 
delicacies  to  the  sick  children.  Many  of 
the  children  are  sick  because  the  mothers 
are  worn  out  with  the  heavy  burdens  they 
must  carry,  and  of  course  the  children  must 
suffer  from  lack  of  care. 

"I  see  that  many  of  the  wives  and 
mothers  in  these  poor  homes,  and  undoubt- 
edly it  is  a  universal  fact  all  over  this 
country,  are  ignorant  of  the  work  of  order- 
ing a  home.  They  haven't  learned  how 
to  do  the  things  they  need  to  know — 


156    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

cooking,  sewing,  and  the  proper  care  of 
children.  The  American-born  mother  in 
many  instances,  as  well  as  the  immigrant 
woman,  doesn't  know  how  to  practice 
the  economies  of  domestic  life.  She  igno- 
rantly  wastes  her  sustenance.  Of  course 
the  immigrant  wives  are  more  ignorant  in 
other  ways.  In  both  cases,  they  are  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning,  I  feel. 

"Don't  you  think,  Billy,  these  women's 
children  should  be  taught  domestic  arts 
in  the  public  school?  I  do.  I  think  they 
ought  to  be  taught  plain  cooking,  not  a 
smattering,  but  the  practical  doing  of  it, 
the  nutritive  qualities  of  common  articles 
of  diet  and  the  best  way  to  prepare  them 
for  nourishing  the  body. 

"Another  important  thing  I  think  should 
be  instilled  into  the  minds  of  the  future 
wives  and  mothers  of  the  laboring  class, 
an  ethical  thing,  is  the  proper  valuation  of 
things  in  spending  their  meager  income. 
I  know  it  is  a  perfectly  natural  impulse  for 
these  women  to  hunger  for  the  vanities 
of  life.  When  I  think  of  myself  I  can 
appreciate  their  wants,  but  it  is  pitiful  to 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    157 

see  these  poor  creatures  spend  what  means 
better  food,  better  health,  and  better  liv- 
ing, on  things  of  no  individual  utility.  It 
is  pitiful  to  see  many  of  these  women 
purchasing  cheap  trinkets  and  useless 
finery. " 

"I  agree  with  you,"  Billy  interrupted 
vehemently.  "I  should  like  to  make  it 
impossible  to  manufacture  cheap  paste 
jewelry  and  all  the  useless  truck  which  our 
country  turns  out  by  the  ton." 

"Well,"  I  continued,  "I  suppose  you 
can't  do  anything  like  that.  We  can't 
remove  temptation  from  these  poor  simple 
souls  any  more  than  we  can  for  ourselves, 
so  the  only  way  is  to  help  them  resist  it, 
for  the  school  to  teach  them  how  to  choose 
essentials." 

"There  is  so  much,"  Billy  said,  "to 
teach  this  generation  that  it  is  a  puzzling 
problem  how  to  get  it  all  in  during  the  short 
school  life. " 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  I  said,  "but  don't 
you  think  we  could  eliminate  some  things 
and  substitute  the  essentials  of  very  simple 
living?" 


i58    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Yes,  Betty,"  he  said.  "The  more  I 
see  of  the  life  of  the  big  mass  of  our  working 
class,  the  more  I  feel  things  are  wrong 
which  we  ought  at  least  to  try  to  make 
right." 

"Where  would  you  begin?"  I  asked. 

"With  myself,"  he  replied. 

"You  are  not  so  foolish,"  I  exclaimed, 
"as  to  regard  yourself  in  any  way  respon- 
sible for  the  suffering  among  these  poor 
miners  and  their  families?" 

"I  said  I  would  begin,  dear,"  he  replied, 
"with  myself.  I  don't  hold  myself  exactly 
responsible  for  the  suffering  in  this  or  any 
other  community,  but  don't  you  think 
that  the  genesis  of  all  living  is  the  indi- 
vidual?" 

"Yes — perhaps,"  I  admitted. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "I  am  an  indi- 
vidual; I  and  others  comprise  the  state. 
Each  one  of  us  is  responsible  for  the  result 
of  our  percentage  of  it  at  least. " 

"Dear  me,"  I  exclaimed,  "I  hadn't 
thought  of  it  that  way.  It  is  a  mighty 
serious  thing  then  for  us  women  to  want 
the  vote?" 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    159 

"I  used  to  think,"  he  said,  "that  it  was 
foolish;  but  since  I  have  lived  here  close 
to  the  human  struggle  for  existence  and 
its  suffering  I  have  changed  a  lot  of  my 
ideas  for  better  ones,  I  hope.  Now  I  think 
we  men  ought  to  beg  you  to  assume  the 
responsibility  of  voting.  It  would  be  a 
profitable  experiment  for  us  to  allow  you 
our  privilege  of  the  franchise  and  assume  in 
return  the  rights  that  you  women  have; 
in  other  words,  for  the  sexes  to  exchange 
places  as  citizens  of  this  country." 

"Billy,  is  your  mind  unbalanced?"  I 
laughed. 

"My  heavens,  Betty,"  he  said,  "it  is 
good  to  have  you  laugh  like  that.  I  would 
give  years  of  my  life  to  have  you  like  the 
girl  I  married." 

How  strange  is  human  nature  and  the 
sequences  of  living!  If  I  had  been  able 
to  be  as  I  am,  when  Billy  married  me,  I 
might  be  as  I  was  then,  now. 

"The  change  you  suggest  is  surely  radi- 
cal," I  protested.  "If  we  women  were  the 
state,  and  the  state  governed,  what  would 
happen?" 


160    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

"Nothing  very  dreadful,  I  believe," 
Billy  maintained;  "and  it  would  only  be  a 
temporary  arrangement  I  am  suggesting." 

"What  do  you  call  a  temporary  arrange- 
ment?" I  asked. 

"A  century  at  least, "  he  replied.  "Men 
have  made  the  laws  and  ruled  the  world 
since  its  beginning,  but  the  world  has 
reached  a  stage  in  civilization  which 
demands  the  arresting  of  the  tendency 
of  mankind  toward  materialism.  Some 
mighty  spiritual  force  is  needed  to  check 
this  tendency.  I  cannot  believe,  with  the 
melancholy  philosophers,  that  mankind 
is  capable  of  rising  so  high,  then  falling, 
burying  the  achievements  of  ages  in  a  great 
catastrophy  from  which  man  must  again 
painfully  and  slowly  arise,  in  time  to  repeat 
the  calamity.  You  admit,  Betty,  that 
women  are  more  spiritual  than  men.  To 
retain  an  ideally  moral  civilization,  the 
majority  of  the  voters  should  cherish  the 
ethical  ideals  of  Christianity.  Which  sex, 
so  far  in  the  world's  history,  has  been  more 
morally  spiritual?" 

"The  woman,"  I  admitted. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    161 

"The  materialism  of  the  present,"  he 
continued,  "eliminating  the  consciousness 
of  God  and  ignoring  the  belief  in  an  over- 
ruling Providence,  is  undermining  the 
foundations  of  the  government.  Who* can 
supply  the  moral-spiritual  force  in  the 
government?" 

"The  woman,  I  suppose  you  mean,"  I 
replied. 

"Yes,  I  do.  Our  civilization  is  hurrying 
on  to  some  disastrous  end,  I  am  sure,  unless 
this  moral  power  is  supplied. " 

"Suppose,"  I  argued,  "that  you  had 
supernatural  power  to  bring  about  this 
ridiculous  arrangement  of  things,  would 
you  expect  women  to  supplant  men  in  the 
many  places  now  filled  by  them?  Think 
of  the  physical  inequality  of  woman,  and 
in  many  instances  the  mental." 

Billy  replied :  "  The  fact  that  women  are 
far  from  the  equal  of  men  in  brute  force 
is  one  reason  why  I  would  give  them  the 
protective  power  of  the  franchise.  The 
world  to-day  seeks  to  support  governments 
by  moral  rather  than  by  physical  power. 
Why  can't  we,  the  chivalrous  nation  of 


1 62    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

Americans,  subjugate  the  physical  in  men 
and  supply  the  spiritual  in  our  government 
by  voluntarily  giving  the  preponderance 
of  power  into  the  hands  of  women?" 

"I  see  so  many  objections  to  it,"  I  pro- 
tested. "Think  of  the  throngs  of  foolish, 
light-headed  women  in  this  country — think 
of  them,  having  the  destiny  of  our  country 
in  their  incapable  hands." 

"Betty,  did  you  ever  realize  that  these 
women  are  in  the  minority?  They  will 
soon  be  extinct,  because  they  are  ceasing 
to  reproduce  their  kind.  It's  the  sturdy, 
fine,  middle  and  lower  classes,  as  we  call 
them,  who  would  rise  and  exercise  their 
privilege.  Don't  you  believe,  if  a  small 
percentage  of  you  women  with  intellect 
and  the  knowledge  of  better  things  would 
take  the  time  and  trouble  to  tell  these 
women  that  their  children's  well-being 
depended  on  their  learning  and  exercising 
honestly  their  power,  they  would  make 
better  voters  than  their  husbands,  who  are 
not  guided  by  motives  as  holy  as  mother 
love?" 

"Perhaps — perhaps,"  I  said;  "but  what 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    163 

will  happen  when  man  is  no  longer  the 
authority  in  the  household?  He  is  the 
breadwinner. " 

"Other  things,"  Billy  replied,  "would 
have  to  be  done — such  as  regulating  the 
disbursement  of  the  family's  income,  allot- 
ting to  the  wife  a  fair  percentage  of  her  hus- 
band's wages." 

"Suppose,"  I  interrupted,  "the  wife 
should  take  the  salary  and  spend  an  unfair 
portion  on  herself  and  children,  depriving 
him  of  home  comforts?" 

"For  my  part,"  Billy  answered,  "think- 
ing of  the  centuries  of  oppression  of  the 
poor  women  who  have  drudged,  borne  chil- 
dren, and  suffered,  without  means  of  relief, 
I  should  like  to  see  the  male  of  the  lower 
classes  in  subjection  for  a  century  at  least. 
However,  the  women  who  do  not  have  to 
labor,  the  women  in  this  country  who  have 
so  much  freedom  of  person  and  means, 
would  soon  find  enjoyment  in  regulating 
the  laws  concerning  household  manage- 
ment. The  women  who  are  light-headed 
and  useless  would  become  useful  mem- 
bers of  society,  if  they  felt  and  saw  the 


i64    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

need  of  their  existence  for  humanity. " 
"Billy,  I  believe,"  I  said,  "you  want 
to  modify  the  constitution  of  the  United 
States  simply  to  give  us  women  of  to-day 
a  vocation,  a  chance  for  showing  what 
stuff  we  are  made  of.  Do  you  think  we 
are  intelligent  enough  to  assume  control 
of  things?" 

"I  think,"  he  replied,  "that  it  is  safe  to 
give  you  unlimited  power.  You  are  intel- 
ligent enough  to  assume  only  as  much 
responsibility  as  you  can  faithfully  perform. 
If  you  made  mistakes  it  would  imme- 
diately reflect  on  your  well-being.  The 
woman  cannot  escape  the  possibilities  for 
suffering  that  her  being  a  woman  ordains. 
There  are  so  many  ways  for  her  to  be  hurt ! 
If  every  woman  were  a  queen  she  would 
still  be  powerless  to  protect  herself  from 
suffering;  her  spirit,  her  intelligence,  her 
physical  being  are  more  sensitive  than  the 
man's.  With  unlimited  power,  she  is  abso- 
lutely dependent  on  man  for  the  happiness 
most  women  crave.  If  she  were  absolute 
ruler  of  the  hearth,  to  be  happy  the  average 
woman  must  have  the  love  of  her  husband. 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL     165 

Therefore  I  maintain  that  woman  would 
not  abuse  even  the  preponderance  of  power, 
because  it  would  not  bring  her  happiness. 
They  are  nearer  the  throbs  of  humanity's 
aching  heart  because  of  their  ability  to 
suffer  more  than  men.  If  the  women  of 
this  or  any  other  country  had  given  them 
to-morrow  the  unrestricted  power  to  rule 
they  would,  through  their  humanity,  find 
a  way  to  relieve  the  heavy  burdens  of  the 
poor.  I  don't  believe  in  socialism — that 
isn't  the  way  to  better  things — but  I  am 
sure  that  there  is  a  way,  and  I  believe  the 
women  of  our  country  will  find  it,  in  spite 
of  the  heavy  hand  of  some  men  restraining 
their  desires." 

"Billy,  Billy,  what  wonderful  things  you 
believe  of  us  women,"  I  said.  "I  am 
afraid  you  are  believing  in  our  sex  beyond 
our  possibilities." 

"  No, — no,  I  am  not, "  he  declared.  "  The 
most  perfect  being  in  the  world — my  wife — 
has  taught  me  the  true  valuation  of  woman- 
kind." 


XXVII 

September  2,  igio. 

WE  sat  out  tinder  the  stars.  I  had 
a  feeling  that  we  two  were  alone 
between  the  earth  and  sky.  Billy 
had  been  very  quiet,  and  I  felt  he  wanted 
to  speak  of  ourselves.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  talk  about 
myself?  I  have  not  earned  a  right  to  ask 
anything  from  you  yet  but  tolerance  of 
my  existence,  but  I  seek  the  relief  of  unbur- 
dening my  soul  to  you.  I  feel  the  need  of 
telling  you  what  you  have  given  me.  I 
came  into  your  life  and  brought  you  sad- 
ness, unrest,  and  misery;  you  have  given  me 
the  joy  of  knowing  a  perfect  love  and  the 
possibility  of  redemption  from  my  baser  self. 

"I,  poor  silly  fool,  did  not  realize  what 
I  was  doing.  I  accepted  your  beautiful 
love  and  went  on  carelessly  enjoying  the 
vanities  of  life,  unconscious  of  this  thing 
which  had  been  given  me.  Then,  later,  I 
met  a  woman  who  stirred  my  man's  nature 
to  its  depths.  I  know  now  that  from  the 

166 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    167 

time  you  came  into  my  life  your  spirituality 
cried  out  to  my  sleeping  soul.  I  ignored 
the  demands  of  my  better  nature,  but 
unconsciously  have  been  influenced  by 
you.  I  had  the  feeling  as  if  I  were  dream- 
ing a  bad  dream,  and  a  gentle  voice  were 
trying  constantly  to  awaken  me.  It  is  use- 
less to  burden  you  with  my  agony  of  regrets. 

"I  could  kill  myself  when  I  think  what 
I  have  caused  you  to  suffer.  I  cannot 
speak  yet  of  that  tragedy  of  which  I,  in 
my  drunken  folly,  was  the  cause.  When 
the  bitterness  of  remorse  came,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  realization  of  you — you 
in  your  pure  womanhood — I  would  have 
ended  everything  for  myself  in  ignominious 
death.  If  I  had  not  known  your  noble 
love  and  been  unconsciously  influenced 
by  it  during  the  years  I  ignored  its  exist- 
ence— denying  my  better  self  the  privilege 
of  asserting  itself — I  would  not,  when  the 
deciding  came,  have  had  the  power  of 
appreciating  the  worth  of  things.  Your 
sweet  soul  has  dragged  mine  from  the  doors 
of  hell." 

I  had  not  moved  or  spoken  while  my 


1 68    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

husband  talked.  I  tried  to  tell  him  I  could 
forgive  him,  but  I  thought:  "I  cannot 
honestly  give  him  my  forgiveness;  I  hate 
the  littleness  of  my  soul;  he  suffers  more 
than  I — I  know  he  needs  the  comfort  of 
my  forgiveness.  Sonny,  my  little  boy, 
my  mother's  hurt  for  you  refuses  to  for- 
give— I  cannot,  oh,  I  cannot — yet." 

October  27,  ipio. 

During  the  months  we  have  lived  on 
this  glorious  mountain  top  Fred  has  been 
seeking  for  medical  aid  to  send  us.  Yester- 
day a  grave,  quiet  man  from  over  the  sea 
came  to  us.  I  stood  silent  while  his  skillful 
hands  read  the  history  of  Sonny's  sick 
body.  When  he  came  toward  me  to  tell 
me  what  I  must  know  I  could  not  raise  my 
eyes  to  meet  the  truth,  and  then  I  heard, 
as  from  a  great  distance,  his  sweet  and 
tender  voice  saying,  "I  can  give  Dorcas' 
little  sister  the  hope  that  some  day  her 
boy  will  recover." 

Fred  had  sent  to  me  the  man  who  had 
watched  while  Dorcas'  pure  spirit  left  its 
earthly  home. 


XXVIII 

June  20,  1911. 

THE  days  follow  each  other  in  rapid 
succession. 

To-day  "Elizabeth  House "  was 
opened.  I  smile  when  I  think  how  each  of  us 
enjoys  our  own  imaginings.  When  I  think 
of  Elizabeth  House  I  see  an  enchanted 
palace  where  many  of  these  worn,  despair- 
ing mothers  are  going  to  find  new  strength, 
new  hope;  where  babes  are  going  to  dream 
sweet  dreams,  cuddled  between  clean  sheets, 
surrounded  by  fresh  air  and  sunshine. 
The  sweet  dreams  I  hope  may  become 
realities,  for  Elizabeth  House  is  to  be  the 
home  of  new  living  for  many  little  ones  in 
this  community. 

To  me  it  is  a  beautiful  dream  come  true, 
a  realized  possibility  for  helping  the  mothers 
here  toward  better  things.  Besides  the  joy 
of  the  thing  itself  there  is  the  happiness  of 
knowing  that  its  existence  is  due  to  Billy. 

During    the    past    six    months    he    has 
studied  the  needs  of  this  community,  and 
169 


1 70    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

he  finally  decided  to  build  this  house  and 
begin  carrying  out  his  ideas  there. 

Billy  came  to  my  room  early  this  morn- 
ing and  said:  "  Betty,  dearest,  will  you 
come  out  here?  I  want  you  to  see  this 
sunrise. " 

The  sun  was  coming  up  through  a  trans- 
parent silver  mist,  its  rays  kissing  the 
mountain  tops.  The  valley  lay  shrouded  in 
the  mystery  of  floating  fog,  but  half  way 
up  the  mountain  side  the  sun's  rays  illum- 
ined the  windows  of  a  new  house.  He  said : 

"Do  you  see  that  house  with  the  sun 
shining  on  it?" 

"Yes,  I  see  it,"  I  answered,  "and  its 
being  there  makes  me  very  happy." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  asked,  "its  name?" 

"No,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  I  said. 

"Well,  its  name  is  'Elizabeth  House,' 
and  it  is  a  gift  to  this  town  on  the  birthday 
of  the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world." 

Billy  said  the  words  as  if  he  were  repeat- 
ing the  Litany. 

"Billy,"  I  said,  "you  dear  boy,  how  did 
you  ever  think  of  such  a  wonderful  birth- 
day gift!" 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    171 

I  thought:  "If  he  would  only  look  at  me 
now  he  would  know  the  ice  in  my  heart 
is  melting.  I  want  to  tell  him,  but  I  can't; 
I  call  him  a  'dear  boy,'  but  I  feel  strange 
and  awed  in  the  presence  of  this  new  man. 
Why  can't  I  put  my  arms  around  his  neck 
and  draw  him  to  me?  I  can't;  he  has 
been  my  boy  so  long,  my  weak,  erring  child, 
that  now  he  is  a  man — a  new,  strong,  self- 
reliant  man — I  do  not  know  him. " 
\" Betty, "  he  said,  "look  at  the  smoke 
coming  up  from  the  chimney.  That  is 
the  smoke  from  your  birthday  candle — 
it  will  keep  on  burning,  dearest,  bringing 
light  and  happiness  to  those  souls  below 
us  in  the  valley." 

October  18,  1911. 

Elizabeth  House  is  a  plain  wooden  struc- 
ture situated  half  way  up  our  mountain. 
Billy  hesitated  about  building  it  here.  It 
seemed  in  some  ways  as  if  it  were  wiser 
to  have  it  nearer  the  town,  but  we  decided 
that  the  advantage  of  the  mountain-side 
location  offset  the  disadvantage  of  dis- 
tance. It  is  a  settlement  house  and  a 


172    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

resting  hospital  combined.  Worn-out 
mothers  come  here  for  a  few  days'  rest, 
bringing  their  children  if  they  wish,  but 
usually  some  neighbor  takes  charge  of  the 
children  and  boards  the  husband  in  the 
absence  of  the  resting  mother,  who  in  turn 
does  the  same  for  her.  They  are  wonder- 
fully land  to  each  other,  these  hard-working 
creatures. 

The  visiting  mother  rests  the  first  few 
days.  She  has  her  meals  in  bed.  The 
nurse  waits  on  her  and  reads  to  her  if  she 
desires  it.  Soon  she  begins  to  look  out  of 
her  window  at  the  mountain  tops  and  the 
sky.  She  hasn't  had  time  before  for  such 
things,  but  as  she  lies  there,  with  clean  things 
all  about  her  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  out- 
of-doors  drifting  in  her  window,  her  eyes 
see  before  her  through  that  window  the 
sunlight  shining  from  above.  She  looks 
down  into  the  valley,  and  thinks  of  her 
husband  working  in  the  shadows.  She 
resolves  to  take  back  to  her  home  some  of 
the  sunlight  and  the  knowledge  of  these 
things  above. 

Later  the  children  come  for  a  visit.     We 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    173 

reserve  only  two  rooms  for  the  settlement 
work,  which  resembles  in  a  small  way  the 
work  of  city  settlement  houses.  We  have 
been  wonderfully  fortunate  in  securing  the 
help  of  trained  persons  to  carry  on  this 
work.  For  that  we  are  indebted  to  Fred. 
He  insists  on  doing  that  'part;  and  he 
always  knows  just  the  person  who  is  eager 
to  come  down  here  and  work  in  Elizabeth 
House. 

Sonny  is  so  much  better  that  he  is  able 
to  be  carried  down  to  the  House  every  day. 
He  plans  games  for  the  little  children.  It 
has  brought  a  great  deal  for  him  to  think 
about  during  the  long  hours  he  must  lie 
on  his  cot  doing  nothing.  The  children 
gather  around  him  and  tell  him  of  the  town 
in  the  valley,  and  he  in  turn  tells  them  of 
the  mountain  top. 

It  is  strange,  but  few  of  the  children  went 
beyond  the  town  until  the  building  of  this 
House.  It  is  a  place  to  come  to.  They 
must  pass  through  meadows  and  under 
trees  to  reach  it.  They  must  look  up  and 
see  the  sun  shine  above  them.  They 
must  hear  the  singing  of  the  birds  in  the 


i74    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

branches.  They  cannot  help  but  feel  the 
sacredness  of  the  stillness  of  nature,  and 
be  better  for  the  climbing. 


XXIX 

November  I,  IQII. 

THE  days  of  purple  haze  and  misty 
frosts  are  here.  Billy  and  I  spend 
four  evenings  a  week  at  the  House. 
The  other  three  we  reserve  for  ourselves. 
During  our  home  evenings  we  discuss 
the  many  details  concerned  with  the  run- 
ning of  Elizabeth  House,  and  we  talk  of 
the  future.  We  see  ahead  possibilities 
reaching  up  even  to  this  mountain  top. 
Billy  has  worked  and  watched  the  life 
about  him  with  such  intensity  that  he 
feels  it  through  all  the  fibers  of  his  body, 
mind,  and  soul.  I  wish*  I  could  bring  into 
my  efforts  for  the  women  the  same  natural- 
ness that  Billy  has  in  his  association  with 
the  men.  He  is  one  of  them — he  knows  and 
understands  their  trials,  their  hardships, 
and  temptations.  He  seems  to  be  inspired 
with  a  divine  humanity.  His  humility  is 
boundless.  His  constant  attitude  is  an 
expression  of  gratefulness  toward  this 
laboring,  suffering  community. 

175 


i76    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

I  watched  them  from  an  adjoining  room 
last  night  as  he  played  a  card  game  with 
them.  They  never  seem  to  think  of  the 
difference  in  their  births — his  and  theirs — 
but  the  way  they  say  "Bennett,  the  Boss" 
brings  tears  of  joy  to  my  eyes. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  as  we  walked  home 
under  the  glittering  heavens,  "Betty,  how 
about  our  future?  Shall  we  go  on  living 
indefinitely  in  this  little  community? 
Are  you  happy,  dear?" 

"This  life,"  I  replied,  "is  very  satis- 
fying to  me;  but  it  is  a  hard  one  for  you. 
Are  you  wishing  for  something  different?" 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  con- 
tinued; "I  am  thinking  of  you  and  Sonny, 
and  others  such  as  these  people  in  this 
valley.  We  have  started  a  work  here  that 
others  may  carry  on.  We  both  feel, 
don't  we,  that  this  is  only  doctoring  the 
sick,  not  removing  the  cause  of  the  disease?" 

"Yes,  Billy,"  I  replied,  "that  is  true." 

"Fred  has  been  writing  of  an  oppor- 
tunity for  me  to  go  into  political  life. 
Father,  as  you  know,  was  a  political  power 
in  our  state  and  exerted  all  his  influence 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    177 

for  the  betterment  of  the  people.  I  inherit 
with  his  name  the  possibility  of  future 
power  in  the  political  field.  With  this 
political  opportunity  I  might  be  of  service 
to  these  people  and  their  kind,  by  working 
for  the  enactment  of  laws  for  the  improve- 
ment of  existing  conditions.  Then  too, 
Betty,  an  uncle  of  ours  left  us  a  lot  of  land 
out  West  years  ago.  We  never  imagined  it 
would  be  worth  much,  but  Fred  writes 
now  that  ore  deposits  have  been  discovered 
on  it,  and  he  has  had  an  offer  for  it  that  will 
make  us  all  rich.  I  don't  deserve  all  this 
good  fortune,  these  opportunities;  it's  all 
due  to  you  and  Fred.  You  have  made  me 
worth  saving,  and  Fred  has  made  the 
opportunities  to  make  me  see  the  reason 
for  living.  What  do  you  think  I  should 
do,  Betty?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "Where  can 
you  do  the  most  for  those  you  wish  to 
help?" 

"I  am  not  sure,"  he  replied.  "There 
are  so  many  things  to  consider.  When 
I  was  first  awakened  to  a  sense  of  obli- 
gation to  my  fellow  man  I  was  overwhelmed 


178    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

with  a  desire  to  relieve  the  needs  of  the 
poor.  I  imagined  if  members  of  society 
who  had  an  abundance  of  this  world's 
goods  but  felt  as  I  felt,  and  would  give  of 
their  bounty,  the  misery  of ^the  world  would 
be  relieved.  My  desire  to  alleviate  human 
suffering  has  increased  since  I  have  lived  in 
the  midst  of  the  daily  witnessing  of  misery, 
but  I  realize  now  that  the  giving  is  not 
enough.  It  comes  first,  of  course — the 
immediate  relief  from  cold,  hunger,  pain, 
and  the  different  forms  of  human  suffering 
which  poverty  and  ignorance  engender. 
As  the  days  have  passed,  and  I  have  watched 
the  conditions  of  the  laboring  ones,  I  have 
asked  myself:  'What  causes  the  poverty 
of  this  individual?  What  the  suffering 
of  that  one?  What  will  prevent  these 
things?'  I  am  only  one  man,  only  one 
individual.  I  cannot  change  the  current 
of  society.  I  can  only  do  one  man's  work; 
but  I  am  anxious  that  every  atom  of  my 
energy  should  be  used  in  the  right  direc- 
tion for  the  bettering  of  men  and  women 
such  as  our  poor  neighbors.  I  have  youth, 
strength,  and  financial  help  to  a  moderate 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    179 

degree.  I  have  a  wife  who  sympathizes 
with  my  desires.  Where  do  you  wish  to 
begin,  Betty?" 

"Oh,  dear,"  I  sighed,  "I  have  asked  my- 
self that  over  and  over  again.  Being  a 
woman,  of  course  the  mothers  and  children 
appeal  to  me  personally.  I  think  I  shall 
use  my  efforts  toward  helping  the  mothers. 
There  are  innumerable  things  which  appeal 
to  me  but,  as  you  say,  I  am  only  one  woman. 
Isn't  there  something  very  wrong  with 
an  industrial  condition  which  drives  women 
and  children  into  factories  and  creates 
more  paupers  than  even  the  charity  of 
a  generous  people  can  alleviate?" 

"There  must  be,  Betty,"  he  replied. 
"To  me  this  problem  appears  like  a  great 
battle  for  the  Right.  The  condition  of 
this  country  seems  something  like  my 
own  individual  experience.  Through  no 
merit  of  my  own  I  grew  up  into  a  vigorous, 
healthy  man,  endowed  with  all  kinds  of 
blessings  and  surrounded  with  possibilities 
for  the  fulfilling  of  my  destiny  in  a  worthy 
manner;  like  this  country  I  became  indif- 
ferent to  the  spiritual  significance  of  living 


i8o    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

and  enjoyed  my  material  prosperity.  My 
awakening  came  as  this  country's  has 
come,  aroused  from  lethargy  and  indiffer- 
ence by  the  voice  of  suffering  and  the  cry  of 
the  spirit.  When  I  awoke  to  consciousness 
of  the  reality  I  was,  like  my  country,  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  the  accusing  facts 
of  suffering,  which  had  been  happening 
while  I  followed  the  inclination  of  material 
desires.  There  is  an  enormous  problem 
for  me  as  an  individual,  as  well  as  for 
our  country  as  a  whole,  to  solve.  Although 
I  should  like  to  believe  that  all  men  desired 
the  good  of  their  country  and  the  allevia- 
tion of  suffering  for  humanity,  in  prefer- 
ence to  an  over-abundance  of  personal 
material  prosperity,  reason  and  facts  tell 
me  that  many  are  indifferent  to  the  spirit- 
uality of  civilization  and  concern  themselves 
only  with  their  personal  existence,  un- 
conscious of  their  unfulfilled  ethical  respon- 
sibilities to  their  country  and  to  humanity. 
Such  being  the  case,  there  is  to  be  a  mighty 
struggle  between  those  who  care  for  others 
and  those  who  care  only  for  themselves. 
"It  is  distressing  in  the  present  crisis 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL    181 

of  industrial  civilization  to  think  how  much 
good  human  energy  must  be  expended  to 
restrain  those  who  do  not  care  for  the  good 
of  humanity  from  retarding  and  inter- 
fering with  those  who  do,  in  the  awakening 
of  the  spirit  of  civilization.  There  is  such 
an  enormous  amount  of  work  for  our 
country  to  do  now  that  she  is  aroused  that 
it  will  be  no  wonder  if  she  staggers  in  the 
wrong  direction  in  a  few  instances;  but 
the  battle  for  the  right  has  begun,  and  if 
each  individual  of  us  who  cares — man, 
woman,  or  child — will  use  our  living  and 
our  efforts  in  the  right  direction,  the  victory 
will  be  won  in  spite  of  seemingly  impossible 
obstacles." 

"But  isn't  that  the  trouble,  Billy?"  I 
asked.  "  Does  not  a  feeling  exist  among  us 
all  that  some  one  else  will  do  the  work— some 
far-seeing,  capable,  public-spirited  citizen 
who  has  more  time  or  money  than  we 
ourselves?" 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid  that  is  true,"  he 
answered.  "It  probably  has  a  good  deal 
to  do  to-day  with  existing  industrial  con- 
ditions and  human  woe.  Many  of  us  who 


182    BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL 

would  care  and  would  try  to  do  our  share, 
if  we  thought  it  concerned  us,  are  too  busy 
living  our  own  lives  to  realize  that  any 
effort  is  needed  by  us  personally  to  help 
adjust  mighty  problems.  We  forget  to 
ask  ourselves,  'Who  is  my  brother's 
keeper?'" 

November  6,  ign. 

The  mountains  rise  in  majesty  around  me, 
and  the  twinkling  stars  send  out  thousands 
of  shining  rays.  I  breathe  the  perfume  of 
the  fragrant  earth,  whence  millions  of  tiny 
flowering  things  send  their  homage  to  the 
skies.  The  moon  shines  down,  and  from 
the  height  I  see  the  shadows  hovering  over 
the  earth.  I  have  dwelt  in  the  shadows 
and  they  will,  perhaps,  again  envelop  me, 
but  I  shall  have  with  me  always  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  mountain  top.  I  see  my  hus- 
band climbing  upward,  and  the  light  from 
above  encircles  him  and  shines  before  him 
on  the  road  as  he  climbs.  The  future 
stretches  before  me,  beckoning  me  to 
better  and  nobler  things.  Peace,  gentle, 
tender,  satisfying,  hovers  over  me.  From 


BETTY  MOORE'S  JOURNAL     183 

out  the  eternal,  the  soul  of  my  beloved 
sister  Dorcas  bids  me  work  on,  hope  on, 
love  on,  until  the  hour  comes  for  me  to 
follow  her  into  the  glorious  Beyond. 


A     000036219    4 


